Embrace of the Dark
by FallenAngelCyril
Summary: One-shot collection. The Warrior of Light has romantic relationships with various Ascians and, possibly, their master. Or, I pair the player character with every Ascian I can get my hands on.
1. Lahabrea: Echo

This is an experimental story; I've never written using this style before and I hope I've done it some credit.

Summary: As long as the Warrior of Light defeats the Primals and saves the Realm, nothing else matters, least of all the Warrior's personal relationships. Lahabrea/Warrior of Light. Non-explicit mind-sex. Takes place mid-Heavensward.

* * *

"Igeyorhm. She touched you." Hard, firm, _tangible_ gloved fingers brush your chest over where Igeyorhm's darkness pierced you. You do not remove your gaze from his face as your teeth clench at the memory of your weakness and inability to stop even the simplest, most predictable attack. You simply nod, hoping he is ignorant of your frustration.

Lahabrea seems apathetic to your plight, his thoughts distracted, as they often are; his own anger is as quick to rise as the flames he controls, the burning directed and short-sighted.

"She knows she is not to interfere." He just barely stops the snarl and clenches his fist. The implied and unspoken " _You are mine"_ is not lost upon you, but as the Ascian does not say it aloud you cannot admonish him for it.

"You should not be here." You finally speak; you have responsibilities to uphold. Lahabrea's partnership with Igeyorhm is not your concern.

"Neither should you." That much is true and you both know it. You should not have returned to the Vault after you last left - after _that_ \- yet any information on Azys Lla would be beneficial to your cause. The last time you forced your way in you did not have the opportunity to look around; now you must search for information on Thordan's ultimate goal, even if it requires entering this place illegally, under the cover of darkness. "Yet here you are."

You decide that Lahabrea does not need an answer; let him come to whatever conclusion he pleases. It is likely he knows exactly why you are here, there is no need to play his game. You turn away from the Ascian and instead continue perusing the titles of the books in the private library, unsure exactly what you're looking for, but you believe you'll know it when you see it.

It becomes apparent very quickly that Lahabrea has no intention of leaving you be or being ignored. His advances are blatant and you know from experience that he will not leave until he is quite satisfied. With an annoyed sigh, you allow him to corner you against a wall.

His host is tall this time.

You think it might be Elezen, but you are unsure and cannot make out any defining features in the low light. It does not matter.

You pull back and turn your head away as Lahabrea's host's mouth approaches your skin. It disgusts you, to be touched by some unknown, possibly filthy creature that Lahabrea chooses to use as a host. You firmly push the host's face away, knowing fully well how absurd the situation is, especially after you almost just welcomed Lahabrea to do what he pleases with you.

The back of your mind tells you that you should think Lahabrea is the filthy one, the one to feel distaste for, not some innocent man he is using on a whim. The rationalization does nothing to stop your aversion for the host's touch or cool the warming of your body.

He does not let go, but instead draws the host closer, the exposed flesh of his mouth breathing into your ear.

"You understand." As the wisps of air move past you, you wonder if he needs to breathe or simply does it for your sake. Lahabrea seems satisfied at your discomfort, as if he's won some inexplicable battle that you had no idea you were fighting. "These prisons of flesh. . ."

He does not acknowledge your disapproval of using his host to touch you and pushes its mouth onto yours. His hands make their way down your body as he kisses you, grinding his teeth into your bottom lip and pushing his tongue wherever it can reach with an almost bestial ferocity. Despite your initial fear, the host is distinctly Lahabrea; the taste, the smell, the feel, the motion, all of it you intimately know. His hands play between your thighs; the strange metallic claws of his gloves somehow find a way to part your cloth armor and trail over your skin.

This is a holy place, the statue of The Fury in the side of the room reminds you.

With the way Lahabrea continues his massage, the way he draws your clothes down and trails harsh nips down your neck, you find it terribly difficult to care.

He continues toying with you using his host until your head feels light and you are breathless. In the back of your lust-addled mind you absently wonder if you, too, need to breathe, or if the Echo makes your body simply a host to be discarded, changed, altered, whenever needed or desired.

Whatever he does, it is not enough.

Flesh is never enough.

 _The Echo breaks the chains of existence_ , Lahabrea had declared to you the first time you were together. The words repeat in your head and you are unsure if they are from your memories or are a command as he begins to slip into your Aether; his Aether is heavy, overbearing, hot - burning more strongly than the fire he controls.

You wonder if your Aether is as cold to him as his is warm to you; perhaps that's why he favors Igeyorhm and her Ice. The thought is bitter and spiteful and a sense of absolute possession fills you, emotions which you are unsure are quite your own.

It is impossible to tell the exact moment you finish merging, or even what happens once the process occurs. Are you still in your body - _host_? Are you in his host? Has your Aether formed some altogether different creature upon its release? There is no way of knowing; there is no purpose in caring.

The only sign that everything is complete is the slight disapproving shame some distant part of you feels as the light at your core temporarily fades.

Uncertainty overlaid with cool confidence. Fear and caution overwhelmed by amusement and burning pleasure. Liberation. Disdain. Possession. Desire. Control. _Chaos._

Glorious, overpowering, terrifying, welcoming, pulsing chaos.

In those still moments, there is no more struggle for control. No more stubborn refusal to cooperate or listen to even the most basic commands. How could there be? There is one. One will. One mind. One absolute understanding.

The fire dims; physical pleasure is lost upon such a merging, but such things are fleeting. Ephemeral. Weak. To be able to share one's infinite existence with one's lover is powerful. Eternal. Indestructible. The fire is everything.

The knowledge and emotions you gain from him are not lost when you finally regain your individuality – will you ever regain it? - The truth and the understanding burn deeply into your core.

You know it.

Lahabrea knows it.

You never find the book you are searching for, but when you return with the answers you were seeking, no one questions you.

You are their Sword of Light, nothing else matters.


	2. Nabriales: Chrysalis

Summary: The Warrior of Light goes on an intimate excursion with Nabriales. Plotless fluff and Crack.

 **Chrysalis**

* * *

For all Minfilia was confident in her elaborate presentation about the difficulties Ascians face when teleporting about whenever and wherever they want, you are profoundly disappointed; their teleportation really feels no different from yours.

"Now that you have been here, you'll be able to return at will." Nabriales guides your Aether to touch _something_. It is best not to ask too many questions, but the process gives you a sense that it is similar to Attunement.

This place is paradoxical, seeming simultaneously empty and filled to its brim with energy. The Aetherial Rift all purple, black, and strangely crystalline; it reminds you of Nabriales' robes and, in that, is comforting, but you find it impossible to shake the sense that you do not belong.

How you will explain your knowledge of this place to the Scions if the time comes to take advantage of it, you have no idea. 'I went on an intimate excursion with an Ascian who brought me there' would not be easily believed or excused.

You've become a very good liar about these outings. You'll find a way to explain it, if you must.

Nabriales has already wandered forward and your gaze follows him to what appears to be a large monument.

"Elidibus likes to stand here and preach." Nabriales lifts his arms over his head dramatically, his back to you, his voice bitter as he looks upon the monument. You can almost hear the sneer you know is on his face.

"On and on and on he goes." As he lowers his arms, the Ascian pulls his cloak down and mask off, not particularly caring for the formalities expected of him. "'Nabriales, this must be done – but not in that manner! There are laws. We have responsibilities.'" Though the man does not quite mimic Elidibus' voice as he complains, you can barely hold back a smile, as it would not be entirely surprising if he started to do so.

"He is quite difficult." Nabriales is fully serious in his rant. When he finally turns back to you, the smile finally breaks free onto your features.

"He did not seem terribly unpleasant." You offer, cautiously. Other than frequent disdainful comments about Lahabrea that you cannot disagree with, this is the first time Nabriales has spoken of his allies. It is unexpected for such hostility to exist between the Ascians and the spiteful insight your companion offers is enlightening.

You reason, silently, that if it is Elidibus who restricts Nabriales from his brasher, unrestrained activities you are convinced the Emissary cannot be _that_ bad. You know better than to vocalize those thoughts and let Nabriales continue his tirade.

"He is quite fascinated with you." Nabriales – or the Hyur-like form Nabriales' Aether takes, it is difficult to remember the difference at times – approaches you until you can feel _him_ radiating over you, through you, into your Aether and through your core, permeating into the Light. The man's form before you may feel your breaths, but _Nabriales_ feels everything.

You wonder if Nabriales knows how distracting he is, at such a distance; you can barely focus on his complaints about Elidibus. "On and on and on _and on_ he goes." Nabriales repeats the phrase and you can see his features turn disapproving, but his Aether is overwhelming and you feel as if you are drowning. He is so close; everything should be clear, not murky as if looking through clouded glass.

"If given the option of him or Lahabrea, I'd much sooner treat with Elidibus." You tell yourself that you're not intentionally goading him, but you're not in the habit of lying to yourself. You desperately need a moment of reprieve from the overwhelming pressure of Nabriales, who seems as if he will only stop once he engulfs you.

"Hmph." Your words have the opposite effect and, in his annoyance, you can feel Nabriales constrict. The Hyur-like form before you clenches your hand and his Aether coils around you in what you can only assume is some Ascian act of sheer possession.

You aren't quite sure how to respond to this; though you've learned to read and predict the man's moods well enough, this is something new entirely.

Before you can form any words, there is a strange, firm pressure that wills you forward, mixed with Nabriales' mortal form guiding you, without subtlety, to the empty space under the monument that dominates the room.

If Nabriales did not so completely not overwhelm your senses, you might have more thoroughly examined the statue, but in your dazed state you only truly comprehend that it is large and that you _really_ should not be here.

Not that you should have been consorting with an Ascian in the first place.

There's no point in second guessing your actions; you will live with your decisions, as you always do – not that Nabriales will allow otherwise in his current state.

Still floating in the sea that is Nabriales, your irrational mind belatedly translates the feelings of your body. Wherever you are, this realm is surprisingly warm. Comfortable, welcoming.

You should be afraid, in this place, where the light shines weakest and you are at the mercy of an unknowable, dark God and one of his most powerful servants immerses you with Aether.

You're not.

"Cool. Reticent. Serene. Impenetrable. Elidibus is right to be fascinated." Nabriales' voice is loud in your ear as his physical form pulls you as close as his Aetherical form already is, his hair brushing your flesh. "I must do enough talking for the both of us, for you certainly will not."

His bluntness earns him another secret smile, one he cannot see with your face pressed into his robes, but one you are certain Nabriales knows is present nonetheless.

In attempt to confound his assumption that you will remain silent, you ask the first thing that wades through the murkiness of your mind "Why are we here?" This is certainly not what you expected when Nabriales dragged you away from your responsibilities and demanded your time.

"Lord Zodiark is near." There is _something_ in his voice; at first you think it might be reverence, but with Nabriales, it is impossible to be sure. You wait for the Ascian to elaborate, but he does not. Instead, his hands move up and down your body in a gentle, soothing caress, his fingers massaging wherever they pass over, his lips sucking softly on your neck.

There is a push at the back of your mind. Indistinct, light, like the pressure of a chore you know must be done, but you ignored for the day or an undesired path of thought that keeps pushing itself into the forefront of your mind. There is no form to this push, but it becomes more demanding as you try to ignore it.

Very much like Nabriales.

You do not fear him in your mind; the Echo prevents him from possessing or controlling you. If he wanted to harm you, he would have done so already. The mental touch becomes more persistent and demanding; Nabriales expects something and you are unsure _how_ to respond. You've trained in a great many things in your travels, but telepathy is not one of them.

Your pride prevents you from asking the man for assistance, so you do what is most familiar. You are not experienced with using the Echo so willingly and you draw only emptiness as you try to emulate the sensations of when you dive into others to experience their memories or communicate with Hydaelyn.

You press your eyes closed and focus on the gentle strokes of Nabriales' hands, the unpredictability of his lips, and the pulse of his Aether, on everything that is _him._

There is no dizziness this time, but you know when your attempt works by the change in your Aetheric flow.

You open your eyes, satisfied, but the sight that awaits you is not what you expect.

You've seen Him before. You would never have forgotten that one short moment when a new Era was declared; it is ingrained as deeply into your mind as your first time communicating with Hydaelyn.

Blacker than the blackest starless night. Familiar and completely alien. Warm instead of cool. Unrestrained instead of reticent. Chaotic and turbulent instead of serene and calm. Responsive to even the slightest disturbance of Aether instead of impenetrable. The outgoing King to the reserved Queen.

The trickles continue over your body, but Nabriales is not there to touch you. The power intertwines with your core, the pulse, the _heat_.

You blink and instinctively pull away.

There is only Nabriales now; He is gone.

"Ah." The Ascian murmurs between kisses. If he uses his Hyur-form's voice or if he speaks in your mind, you don't know. Whatever it was you did worked; the connection between you has solidified and the blurry visage of Nabriales' Aether around you has cleared.

If he knows what you've seen, for once Nabriales shows restraint and says nothing.


	3. Igeyorhm: Dreams of Snow and Ice

Ishgard is the land of death. Ysayle/WoL, Igeyorhm/WoL. Heavensward spoilers.

 _ **Dreams of Snow and Ice**_

* * *

Ysayle is ice; hard, slick, and impossible to grasp for any period of time. She stubbornly clings to her dreams like a stalactite in a frigid cavern, but she breaks easily. Once a single crack appears, she shatters.

While you wax poetic, perhaps you'd consider yourself hail. Powerful, efficient, sculpted by situation, and brutally refined by your responsibilities. You are not terribly different from the strange Elezen woman who embraces the ice to her very core.

Ysayle kisses you first, pushing you down into the snow below her. She is hard, passionate, demanding and easily overwhelms you, refusing to let you draw a breath.

"I need you." You can hear her pant desperately when you finally stop for breath, the snow around you melting from the heat of your bodies.

She is Iceheart and she is terrified. Someday there may be no more Ysayle, only a frigid warrior who holds within her the lover of dragons. She understands her fate and accepts it, but its burden is heavy - as is yours.

When she moans as she arches her back over you, weight balanced over your abdomen and hair falling over your chest, she loses control of her aether. Shiva draws from the environment, turning the snow to frost until it bites into your flesh and your breath cannot leave your lungs. Ysayle recovers quickly and apologizes for her distracted moment of weakness.

"I've had worse from falling." You tease, for her sake.

Your relationship ends through inevitable circumstance, well before it can ever truly begin.

On the broken, aether-stained plains of death, you meet her again, Midgardsormr at your side and in your mind. You are like her now, you think, and perhaps you can understand her plight; for Ysayle and the Heretics, a bond with the Father of Dragons makes you almost an object of worship.

You plead wordlessly for her to treat you as she always has; you do not need another person revering you as a powerful, distant icon. Ysayle is not only Iceheart and you are not only the Warrior of Light.

You turn away from Ysayle; as you leave, stalactites crumble around you, littering the empty fields.

Igeyorhm is snow. Delicate, cautious, and unbelievably resilient. Once the foundation is laid, she remains perpetually. Igeyorhm melts slowly and steadily, but she never breaks.

You sit quietly together in high, secret places, unwilling to be disturbed. She enjoys oddly simple things: the way you move and breathe, the way your hair blows in the wind, the way your expressions change so readily, the way your uncovered eyes freely show emotion.

"Mortal forms are so strange." Her gloved fingers boldly and curiously stroke your face. She favors touch, a bonding she is incapable of in her true form. Sometimes it feels as if you spend hours together, as she learns your warm body and you learn her cool aether.

You try to kiss her, just once. Igeyorhm does not move or respond as your lips brush the pale, cool flesh below her mask.

For what seems to be an eternity after you remove your mouth, the Ascian is silent. Your heart beats heavily in your ears and you try to draw away in vain hope that she does not recognize how awkward you feel at your mistake.

"No, not like this." She predicts your withdrawal and pulls you closer than she ever has before, pressing your face to her chest. "This host – not like this." She repeats and brushes her hand through your hair.

Igeyorhm, too, is taken from you by inevitable circumstance.

There is no sadness or regret. There are no apologies as she burns your core with her magic. She has her duty and you have yours.

Even as Thordan watches, awaiting his entry into Azys Lla, she touches you. One hand brushes your clothing, exposing previously-hidden flesh; she moves her fingers across your face, over your shoulder, down your arm, playing at your palm. This is the only moment you are ever, truly, at her mercy.

As Igeyorhm turns away, her aether presses yours, marking it softly - an eternal footprint in undisturbed powder.

By your hand the auracite shatters, white shards falling silently to the floor.

Now the dreams of snow and ice have faded **.** Only the hail remains, seared to sleet by burning light.

 _Crack._

The avalanche breaks free.

 _How much more?_ You demand of a silent Goddess.

Powder cascades over the mountains in a free fall.


	4. Elidibus: Emissary

Summary: The Warrior of Light is sick of fake smiles, games, half-truths, and withheld information. Post-Heavensward, Warrior of Light/Elidibus.

 ** _Emissary_**

* * *

As a naturally neutral entity, adventurers make the best emissaries, you muse as you blow out the last candle.

Your actions have you known by name and face in every city-state in Eorzea, as much as any leader in international politics is known to the public. You've destroyed primals and dragons, acts that have ended years of war and saved an entire generation.

You've brokered peace with beast tribes, though they are are surprisingly open and far less insular than many leaders or high ranking members of the Spoken race factions. You barely need to convince them at all; so long as they are not Tempered and you communicate and provide aid, they are quite accommodating.

You've explored the technology of an ancient Empire and fought a modern one while asking for nothing in return.

Trust is your key to politics, and Eorzea's trust in you is so secure that not even Teledji-Adeledji's condemnations were enough to break it.

A smile here, reassurance there; "I'll handle it." you've said more times than you can count with a smile when only uncertainty and dread fill you.

 _He offers you a familiar reassuring smile as you sit on the bed beside him; his gentleness is welcome in your exhaustion._

The unspoken promise of protection. _"_ We'll be there when needed." is all you need to say and no one doubts it.

 _He holds you close, arms enveloping you as you strip off your clothes -_

You must balance political needs of multiple countries and weave your way through their policies, but, like most emissaries, there is only so much you can do as an outsider. There comes a time when you must step back; Ul'dah was a mistake, your hands dipped too deeply in the quicksand.

 _\- but only for a moment; he pulls back slightly, to put distance between your bodies._

You tell the people what they want to hear. "We'll continue to monitor and neutralize the primal threat when necessary." is something Minfilia repeated frequently to the leaders of the Eorzean Alliance and, at the time, you thought nothing of it. It was just a promise she always made. When you started repeating "The dragons are not a threat anymore; the war has ended." to the citizens of Ishgard, you came to realize the importance of such generic promises in keeping calm and peace in a population ready to explode.

" _I want you." He does not raise his voice above a whisper, nor does he need to. You want him too, more than words can express._

You offer hints of truth in your explanations, withholding knowledge when necessary. Your word, with the support of Estinien, was the only explanation necessary to drive Aymeric into action and start the systematic dismantling of the Holy See's power. Few ask the method or why you know what you know; it is better that way.

When you absolutely must, you know minds are open books for locating information that suits your purposes. Even now, you remember the feel of hard scales and soft eyes and blood and rage - body-absorbing, mind-collapsing, rage that makes you shake, long after experiencing it secondhand.

They are as natural as breathing, now, these political games.

Y _ou breathe in time with him, back pressed to his chest as he runs his hands over your bare thighs and stomach, up your shoulders and neck and through your hair._

The games are your responsibility, your duty, in keeping Her peace.

The thought is sobering and your body feels as if it has been doused in frigid water.

"Why are you here?" You ask Elidibus, feeling very heavy from your introspection, arousal gone. "Minfilia is the one strong in the Echo; I can barely use it at will."

You are not a child; this strange, liberating relationship cannot last. Three of his kind are dead, two by your hand.

"You are still learning; mastery takes time." He responds with an evasive, half-answer – not even an answer at all, truly. Elidibus subtly dances around the important aspects of your question. Sensing your annoyance, he continues, without pause or hesitation, "I am here because everyone must devote time to their needs -" you look though the darkness to the door of your Inn room and pretend to ignore the commotion down the hall "- away from distractions."

Elidibus tells you exactly what you want to hear, seemingly reading your mind and prying your desires from it.

His large hands move down to massage your sore shoulders as if they can absorb the exhaustion from your body and lift the invisible weight from your chest.

Elidibus always tells you what you want to hear, his gentle, secure words promising solutions to your problems.

That's what Ascians do; perpetually neutral, they whisper secrets and solutions no mortal should know.

That's what the Warrior of Light does; perpetually neutral, you know secrets no mortal should and offer solutions no mortal but you can provide.

There is nothing but lies, politics, and death in this eternal dance. Another feigned smile to a guardsman in promise you will bring him ale and supper, another noble who desperately clings to his power and scrambles to gain control of a changing city, another primal whose aether only you can dissipate – more dreams and hopes you destroy for the greater good.

Ascians know the steps better than you ever will; they've thousands of years of experience. A deep, draining sense of bitterness overwhelms you.

"I'm tired." Honest, vulnerable words murmured and barely intended to be spoken at all. For one simple moment, all of your shields drop, your mistakes impossible to ignore, your misguided trust and hopes burning away your energy. You do not even have the energy to scream.

Elidibus stops his massage, a deep inhale the only evidence he heard you at all. You can feel tenseness over his body behind you, sharply in contrast to the loose, relaxed warmth he usually provides. When the Ascian finally releases his breath, it is a quiet sigh, uncharacteristic of the pleasant, confident man you thought you knew – the one you desperately wanted.

"It will only become more difficult over time." It is well-hidden, but you sense vulnerable exhaustion in the low, strange words – words that, for the first time since you've met him, are most certainly not the ones you want to hear.

It is, perhaps, the most honest statement he has ever said to you.

The sounds from the distant room die away and you focus on trying to find something, anything, that is not your companion. The pregnant silence is sour on your tongue; there are no words. What words can there be, now that the curtain has been lifted?

After what seems to be a millennia, the Emissary finally breaks the silence. "I am called Elidibus." He falls silent again. Seemingly unknown to both of you, Elidibus has been clenching your hand painfully, your pulse tingling and pounding under calloused flesh. The man stares long and hard at the hand he clenches, as if it's one of the most foreign things he has ever seen. "Yes, I suppose a name exchange is sufficient for a first meeting." The weariness in his posture, the quietness of his voice, and the strange insecurity in his grasp all clash with the pleasant expression his red mask tries to enforce.

As if the world starts its turn once again, you blink, dumbfounded at his strange behavior.

All at once you understand. You never knew him; he never knew you. You have allowed a stranger to touch your body and learn your mind.

"It's a plea-" You answer quickly and irrationally; you meet so many new people daily who introduce themselves to the fabled Warrior of Light that, even as you do not intend to, an automated, familiar smile crosses your features.

You stop yourself, fighting the habitual response to pleasantries. This new acquaintance does not want something from you. He does not want to meet the Warrior of Light; he already knows the legend. You fall into prolonged silence again. Your eyes bore into your alien hand, not entirely unlike Elidibus a moment before.

No more games.

No more lies.

You finally look up and formally offer him your name – just your given one – without the smile or pleasantries.

The Emissary does not remove his hood and mask, but perhaps, in time, you will be permitted to see beneath them.

* * *

To Ad3vanto3, who I cannot reply to in PM: Yes, I absolutely plan on doing more Lahabrea in the future. He is my favorite character. I wanted to get the 4 Ascians done first before going back and writing a second for each. And trust me, I've been waiting for someone to write Ascian fanfiction for 2 years until I finally broke down and had to do it myself.


	5. Lahabrea: Vanity

**I am now accepting prompts. Any Ascian with the Warrior of Light is acceptable.**

Summary: _Lahabrea is neither patient nor a teacher, so when the Warrior of Light asks him how Ascians, essentially sentient aether, experience pleasure, he is only willing to tell her if she agrees to his conditions. The answers - and the conditions - are not what she expects. Clothing kink, light experimental mind-sex. Takes place during 2.4._

 _Note:_ As this was written entirely in a fit of self-indulgence and I'm sharing it because I'm sure someone out there enjoys this kink, this isn't going to work with a few races - sorry Lalas. As you can see by the summary, this one-shot uses a female WoL.

 ** _Vanity_**

* * *

"Do you enjoy this?"

Your query is breathy; you are close enough that you can feel the heat of your heavy exhales on his face as he holds your arms over your head, spreading your thighs with his knee.

There are no doubts Lahabrea takes great pleasure from you. Those nights when you're below him, squirming in desire, back arched, sweating and panting so hard you're almost begging for more, he is aroused as you are. He never acknowledges it, but you can feel when his control over his aether weakens, each touch on your flesh as erratic and electrifying as the Lord of Levin's judgement. The power leaks over your bare skin and, if you were capable of sight in the darkness, you imagine you'd be covered in a sheet of intangible shadow.

Yes, he undeniably enjoys these encounters.

Lahabrea says nothing; you've come to recognize that when the Ascian deems a subject or person irrelevant he ignores it completely- a response he frequently demonstrates on mortals. It is decidedly uncomfortable that he has directed this habit toward you.

"What is it like -" You rephrase your inquiry, pulling your arms down and rolling on top of Lahabrea so that he has no option but to focus on you; this is a strategy you've learned from him. " -for an Ascian?"

Lahabrea makes no effort to remove you, instead his hand runs down your body and he rests his arm on your lower back. A small smile tugs at his lips as he meets your gaze.

"Why don't we come to an agreement?" He chuckles and trails the back of his finger down your face, unnervingly confident. You get the sense that he has waited for this trap to be sprung. "I will hold nothing back; anything you wish, my knowledge is yours."

You've made progress, but after witnessing the nature of Ascian 'agreements' in how Lahabrea played Garlemald's Black Wolf, you are slightly wary; there is always a motive. Even Lahabrea, who often offers information freely, makes no effort to deny this nature of give-and-take – a nature not terribly different from the exchanges of mortals, but infinitely more dangerous.

"In exchange?" You reply cautiously.

The smile widens. "Just for tonight, you serve Him."

You withdraw immediately, rolling off Lahabrea and pushing yourself from the bed, the words instantly sending you into an adrenaline-heightened state from the sheer power of your vehemence. No matter how intense your interest in Ascian relationships is, nothing is worth what he asks.

Lahabrea knows your answer before you speak and he continues casually, as if discussing the color of the sky. "A formality, truly. Your Gift is enough. However –" he pointedly draws his gaze over your nude body standing above him "-there are other formalities that must be attended to."

"Sate your curiosity and learn the taste of eternity, or continue this mortal liaison and pretend our conversation never took place." The Ascian offers his ultimatum.

You press your lips together, the adrenaline from your earlier response fading. Willingly blinding yourself and pretending you never asked is unacceptable now that you know Lahabrea actively withholds the information. Though you doubt Lahabrea cares much for formality, you recognize his request is not unfair; the Ascians do not easily share their secrets and respecting their ways while you learn is appropriate.

Moenbryda may find the knowledge of Ascian aether response useful in her studies, you rationalize, ignoring how belatedly your acknowledgement of the Scions' needs came in the decision-making process.

"A formality?" You submit to Lahabrea, seeking confirmation; with Hydaelyn's protection, it seems impossible for you to be taken by their God, but anything other than symbolic service remains unacceptable.

You really should not be doing this, your rational mind whispers, but you push the voice aside. There are many things you should not do; "forbidden" and "improper" have never stopped you before.

"A formality." He agrees, familiar smugness in his voice. "You only temporarily commit to our traditions."

You nod stiffly, acknowledging his victory. Tradition, that's all it is.

Unsettled to your core by his subtle, evasive terms, but inappropriately excited in your quest forbidden knowledge, you release a long, controlled breath as Lahabrea stands. He circles behind your back - Lahabrea is one of very few acquaintances you'd permit behind you with such ease - his fingers playing at the nape of your neck, pulling your tangled hair from your face and holding it as if he might band or clip it back.

"We clothe ourselves." He whispers in your ear and removes his fingers from your hair. The stray locks do not fall back forward.

It is too late when you recognize what Lahabrea implied by 'formality' and 'tradition.' You feel like a fool for not considering it earlier.

His hands drop to your thighs and you can feel his aether molding around them, slowly and deliberately, touching and teasing until you squirm. Every soft stroke solidifies soft material of your new trousers, every tease sending a wave of anxiety through you. He kneels and lifts your left foot; the aether he forms here is thicker, more durable. The boot is made for you, thick, but soft and more comfortable than any you've worn since you've started adventuring.

It is to learn more about the Ascians, you attempt to convince yourself as you lower your right foot, second boot completed. There is no deeper meaning to this theatre.

He grasps your hands, holding them as the aether moves up your arms far, far too slowly. His touch is warm, each tendril seemingly scathing your flesh and soothing it, a paradoxically gentle agony that you are unsure even exists at all. The gloves thicken; your skin remains unmarred.

He offers no apologies for your discomfort; you do not expect him to.

You breathe in sharply expecting similar pain when his aether covers your shoulders, but as it spreads down your chest, back and abdomen it is cool and soft, like a dress made of an extravagant Ul'dahn silk moving over bare flesh. As if to emphasize exactly what he's doing, Lahabrea runs his hands over the fabric as it materializes, molding it to your form, all the way up your neck, pressing it into every crevice and over your breasts. _He_ feels you too; his aether intimately taking in your entire body.

"You will find the robes are quite permanent and will remain when you remove them. Consider them a gift." The memory of clutching Thancred's immobilized body as you escape the Praetorium, still clothed in Lahabrea's robes flashes through your mind. The absurdity of your situation is not lost upon you.

So close to completion, Lahabrea grows impatient. He does not seem as interested in teasing and touching as he covers you with a heavy outer cloak that covers your head and reaches almost to the floor. Your body is so thoroughly covered by Lahabrea's strange, aether-formed robes, that you know you should feel him thickly enough to fall ill from aether poisoning, but they are strangely contrary, not like Lahabrea at all; the robes push out any foreign aether in an unfamiliar protective enchantment.

"Open your eyes." He commands, having moved to face you.

 _No._ you desperately want to say, but your body obeys him.

Red, not black; equal, not subservient. He pushes his mask on your face.

It is done.

You release a long breath; there is no dark God to touch you, no abandonment by Hydaelyn, and none of the Scions have discovered your secret. Your heart lightens and the overwhelming pressure lifts from your shoulders, liberating you. You've satisfied Lahabrea's conditions and the answers will be yours; excitement and curiosity fill the holes where uncertainty and fear were moments before.

If Lahabrea knows your thoughts, he does not show it; you do not expect him to gloat openly, but you await the satisfaction and pleasure you know he must feel. You do not receive it; all the Ascian offers is an unreadable, focused stare. His gaze roams over your newly-costumed body, but he does not touch you. He moves no closer than a pace away, as if an invisible barrier forbids it.

"I have promised you knowledge; it is experience you shall receive."

He starts without warning. Before you are able to absorb the words, familiar, intense, incapacitating dizziness overwhelms your senses, followed by a pull. It is a painful, harsh tug that you violently fight, like how you might struggle to cling to a rock in the turbulent sea, desperately resisting the undertow's drag. You push back instinctively, lashing out in any way your mind and body allow, but the pull is stronger, directed, controlled, and knows where you're weakest. It pries you easily from your rock and you are dragged into turbulent waves.

Floating in the dark depths, there is only dazed nothingness.

You try to move, but there is no body to respond. You try to breathe, but there is no air.

The fog lifts slowly as your daze lessens. Familiar forms and shapes slowly become clearer as you touch them. The bed, the door, the table – your body, strewn across the floor like a marionette without strings. It is sight that is not sight, distant, only experienced through another sense. It is an echo.

The tug returns; it has a distinct, identifiable flavor. Its taste is not sweet, sour, or bitter, nor is it spicy, tangy, or umami. The tug _is_ its own flavor, identifiable from all the other objects in the room with only the barest touch.

More gently than before, the tug - your logical mind belatedly recognizes it as Lahabrea - draws you closer to it, letting you mingle near its stable core, out of the chaos of tastes and echoes. He is distinctly different from everything around you; he flows, controlled, like a gentle river.

Experimentally, you try to touch the smooth flow; in a sensation very much like taking a step too far into a lake and dropping off an invisible, unknown ledge, you are immediately swept away in all that makes up Lahabrea, unable to fight the turbulence.

There is no control, there is no tug to guide you, there is no _you_. You are torn apart and dispersed throughout the flow. It does not hurt; there is no pain to feel.

It ends as soon as it begins, but where there was previously chaos, there is only silent stillness in the center of the whirlpool, the eye of the storm, the core of the crystal.

It is _Lahabrea_.

You cannot move. You cannot feel. There is nowhere to move; there is nothing to feel.

He pulses; intense heat is drawn inwards, like water inundating the sand, spreading. His core is a beating heart, with the aether that makes up your essence forming his blood.

Each pulse is invigorating, swallowing you and reforming you anew.

Each pulse is unifying; as much of Lahabrea is in you as you are in him, as much at his mercy as he is at yours.

Each pulse is exhausting; the warmth and closeness are intolerable, threatening to tear you apart.

Each pulse is relieving; as the river pushes you away softly, the heat subsides and the distance increases.

Lahabrea acts as an anchor as you somehow separate and reform, allowing you to define what makes up _you_. With uncharacteristic patience he guides you, helping you move through the sea of chaos and spread over your fallen form, deliberately tasting you before you are reabsorbed.

You clench your hands and blink your eyes and move your toes and breathe deeply, experiencing all the senses you were deprived of and never knew you could miss. Your body is whole and welcoming.

"That was. . ." Your tongue is dry and the words do not come easily. You do not know how to describe what you've experienced.

Different. Sedate. _Disappointing_.

Lahabrea recovers far more quickly, having the knowledge to easily reform. He stands above you, wordlessly beckoning. "Hosts are convenient for many things."

Despite your better sense, you cannot disagree; you've no desire to exist permanently in that prison of chaos and intangibility. Even in the Hyur-like form you've come to recognize as Ascian, Lahabrea is still simply controlled, anchored, carefully molded aether. Without their Dark Crystal, they are as lost in this world as you were. You push yourself to your feet, thankful for the security of your body.

"When you've more control -" For the first time since clothing you, Lahabrea touches you, his hand stroking your face and thumbing the mask. He still does not touch your covered body, strangely more intimate in his reverent restraint. "- we may use the Gift in more permanently unifying ways."

Something has changed; there is nothing casual in Lahabrea's speech. Whatever strange relationship that is between you will never be the same. You've touched him; you _know_ him.

His robes and God do not matter; the true exchange has been completed. Trust for trust.

In the darkness, you smile softly.


	6. Lahabrea: Scourge

Summary: _All relationships are built on communication. Unfortunately, the Warrior of Light's partner cares little for listening._

or  
 _Lahabrea inappropriately expresses an unfamiliar emotion. Plotless jealousy fic. Post-Vault, Pre-Bismarck._

Note: I've been debating posting this because I've been trying to depict the Ascians as more than two-dimensional caricatures. But let's face it: Lahabrea can be an asshole and I wanted to write him being entirely, well, Lahabrea.

(Plus, all powerful male characters need a jealousy fic at some point).

 ** _Scourge_**

* * *

"It's almost time."

Snow falls heavily outside the window, the lights throughout the city muted by its dance. The sky has faded to somewhere between white and grey, yet somehow remains almost as dark as the depths of the night, and the sounds of the busy streets are muffled to blissful silence.

You close your eyes, smiling softly as you brush your hand over the dark, weathered tabletop; through deep, slow breaths you ingrain everything in Fortemps manor into your memory. You do not know when you will next return, but for now you must press on. Long-awaited serenity and peace embrace you, washing away introspection and regret, filling you with renewed confidence. "The others await. Watch over me, Haurchefant."

You know he is behind you before he even finishes materializing, a sense that you do not know how or when you gained. His arrival is neither unwelcome nor unexpected, as he has not approached you since before the day you were attacked.

"You are unharmed." Lahabrea's voice is neutral and unsympathetic, a welcome break from your solitude and the unintended condescension of your companions, whom have spent the last days speaking to you as if their every word has them walking across glass. That the Ascian comes to you at all demonstrates his concern, even if his language does not.

You nod offhandedly, running your hand over the table once more, with gentle finality, before you turn to face Lahabrea.

"He saved my life. From _your_ ally." You are surprised that you can muster such bitterness in your tranquility; for once, Lahabrea has done nothing to deserve it. The remark was superfluous and you regret it as soon as it passes your lips. Thordan was supposed to be _your_ ally as well.

"He?" You doubt Lahabrea truly cares for the answer, but you humor him, as he often does you.

"Haurchefant. He was my–" You pause, unsure how to describe the strange Elezen. Haurchefant was an aide, ally, comrade, companion, guardian, and knight, all at once. Even though he was not chosen by Hydaelyn, in your mind he was as much of a Warrior of Light as you – and, given your current company, perhaps a truer one. You smile warmly.

The shift in Lahabrea's body language is subtle, but through the pale light of the window you see his Hyur-form's muscles tighten more and more the longer you hesitate. The shift in his aether is not nearly so inconspicuous and Lahabrea makes no effort to hide his disapproval in the way he knows you are most sensitive to; his normally taut control is frayed and you're very certain that you're precariously close to shredding it with your next words.

"- Friend." You settle on the truth, Lahabrea's ridiculous reaction to a simple hesitant statement be damned.

"Friend." Lahabrea spits the word out with vehemence. "He was _mortal_." Behind the sneer and utter contempt, the Ascian seems almost bewildered at your choice of words. You are unsure if bewilderment can be bitter, but Lahabrea has somehow made it so.

"I have many mortal friends." You reply quickly, before you can stop yourself. Placidity finally broken, your annoyance rises in disbelief that he chose this time and place to press such absurd subjects. "I have _only_ mortal friends." You correct yourself; Ascian foolishness aside, your relationship with Lahabrea passed "friend" long ago.

"You have _no_ mortal friends; you are nothing but a blade for your companions to wield when needed. A tool." The Ascian stubbornly continues his unwinnable battle.

"What nonsense, you-"

Minfilia's words as she turned from you, by the will of Hydaelyn, push themselves to the forefront of your memory before you can force them down, your mind unwittingly betraying you.

 _You are hope._

Would the woman who survived the Calamity, united the Circle of Knowing and Path of the Twelve, and was strong enough in the Echo to draw the attention of Elidibus, have saved you, were you simply a friend? If you were not Her chosen and instead just another Scion with skill in weaponry and aether manipulation?

At your pause, Lahabrea strikes, ever the efficient hunter."What have you told them?" He bares down, drawing himself closely enough that all you see - all you feel - is Lahabrea. Without Her Blessing, his aether is indomitable and its pressure pushes inward through your body, impossible to suppress. He lowers his voice, speaking slowly, each word punctuated by a pulse that, while forceful, is not uncomfortable. "How much do they know?"

You look to the side, unable to meet Lahabrea's gaze. The subject that rests most arduously on your heart is laid bare and he knows it; shame and regret fill you in equal quantities. What would they have done if they knew of _this_?

"Nothing." You admit quietly. "They know nothing."

Lahabrea immediately withdraws, giving you space to breathe as the tense energy he exudes turns into a caress of self-satisfaction. He says nothing, but he does not need to; he has proven his point twice over.

"Who knows nothing?" Your head snaps back up at the unexpected voice. Your hand immediately reaches for your weapon, your body skittish and prepared for attack in an instant, instincts honed to perfection from countless battles. You were so focused on the Ascian that you paid no heed to your surroundings, but no more.

Alphinaud steps from the doorway, curious expression on his face as he glances through the room. Heart pounding from the rush of anxiety, your eyes dart to Lahabrea, who stands in silence, mood and thoughts unreadable. You have never been more thankful that, when he lacks a host, Lahabrea is only visible to those without the Echo when he chooses to be.

"I apologize for interrupting; I knocked but you did not reply. The airship is ready." You offer him a shaky nod, but remain silent as you slow your breath and recover from the panic. "I know it's not been long, but we must press on." He moves just two steps closer, as if hesitant to approach, instead offering an awkward smile. "That's all we can do for him."

All at once, the shadows over your heart clear as the Elezen youth repeats what you've taught him. It feels strange, hearing words you've spoken being echoed back to you, but also warm and soft, as if Alphinaud has covered you with a dry woolen blanket as you lie freezing in the snow. Your heart is lightened and, no matter the truth to them, Lahabrea's earlier words slip off you. Sword you may be, Hope you may embody, secrets you may hold, but they are still as true of friends to you as any can be.

"Ah –" Alphinaud continues and you glance again over to Lahabrea, who remains as patiently impassive as before. The Ascian has waited millennia for his Rejoining, no doubt waiting a few moments for his lover's business to conclude is inconsequential. "I know we don't always understand everything you go through, but you can rely on us."

You almost laugh out in relief; Alphinaud seemingly believes you were speaking to yourself when he arrived. "Thank you." You smile genuinely at the young man, heart welling at his open affection and support. "I'll be there soon, I just need a few more minutes."

Silently thanking Alphinaud for his Hydaelyn-sent timing, you turn your back to him so you can focus on your silent companion. As the door closes, you step closely to Lahabrea, confidence renewed. Lahabrea, too, seems to have calmed due to you your earlier submission to his argument, and draws equally close. Your debate, however, remains unsolved, as you are both stubborn, unyielding creatures.

"The Archbishop awaits you at the Blue Window." Lahabrea breaks the silence with an unexpected offer of peace. "Igeyorhm accompanies him. You are not fit to confront her."

You blink in surprise at his admissions. Though you and your companions have suspected Thordan traveled to the Sea of Clouds, you cannot help but feel perplexed that Lahabrea makes no attempt to conceal information you are certain is detrimental to his plans. "You shouldn't be telling me this."

"Is the exchange of knowledge not what _friends_ are for?" His lips curl, words filled with possessive spite. No answer you give will satisfy him, Lahabrea simply seeks to goad you; you refuse to play that game again, displeased that he continues to press the subject.

If he is disappointed at your lack of reaction, he does not show it, and continues. "Nothing I say will stop you."

"What does he seek?" You press, trying to glean what information you can while Lahabrea freely shares knowledge out of his petty grudge.

"The same thing all powerful fools eventually come to desire." No matter how severe his jealousy, no matter how bitter and angry he often seems at your stubborn refusal to stay with and aid him, nothing compares to the utter spite in these few words. Your earlier argument was little more than an annoyance; what the Ascian radiates now is deep-seated, unadulterated loathing, of such intensity that it penetrates the air and you must pull away from him slightly, lest you be overwhelmed.

He has no doubt encountered Thordan's type before many times in the past. If your experiences with the politics of Ul'dah and Ishgard have made you distrusting of those in power, it comes as no surprise that after thousands of years of working with similar men and women – 'powerful fools' - aiding them as they attempt to satiate their lust for power, Lahabrea despises mortals.

Whatever the Archbishop desires, you decide, it is not worth _this_ – prolonging this war by perpetuating a thousand-year manipulation for his own purposes, claiming more and more innocent lives.

 _They killed Haurchefant._

You clench your fists and turn your stare to the table once more, Lahabrea's anger seemingly a contagion that seeps into you.

As quickly as the Ascian's rage rose and as intensely as it burned, it cools with equal haste. Yours is not so easily doused.

"Do not struggle against fate." Lahabrea rests his hand atop your fist and strokes it gently. "Soon Her taint will be burned from you and we will no longer suffer the shame of this theatre." With his soft tone, you get the sense that the Ascian is trying to be affectionate, comforting you in the only way he truly knows how.

His words are disagreeable, but they have their intended effect and your anger fades. The strange attempt is more than enough, a reminder of why you remain in this impossible relationship. You release your fist and grasp his hand, intertwining your fingers.

For Hydaelyn, for Eorzea, for your friends, for Haurchefant, you will stop Thordan - even if you must beat Lahabrea into submission and expose your secret in the process.

Sensing your lightened mood, Lahabrea closes the distance and offers you an ephemeral kiss – for your sake, more than his own. "Go, now, back to your mortal _friends_."

Yes, perhaps a good beating will be good for him, you muse, turning your back on the darkness.


	7. Nabriales: Shroud

Summary: _Sequel to Chrysalis. AU, An Uninvited Ascian. Hesitation and botched teleportation. Because the Warrior of Light is still human. Because not all drama need be tragedy. Bittersweet fluff and a bit of teasing._

Note: For the prompts "touch" and "teasing."  
This was written very specifically for a White Mage, for reasons you probably expect, and perhaps some you do not.

 _ **Shroud**_

* * *

You should be dead.

By all rights, overtaxed from internal aether use as you are, you should barely be able to move, let alone stand. Yet stand you do, balancing precariously on the chasm to the abyss onwhat little pride you've left. Tupsimati falls from your limp grasp, the resounding thud as it lands on the floor the only sound that breaks the silence.

A cry, with words you cannot understand. A shriek, whose source you cannot define.

Nabriales makes no attempt to communicate or reform; released from his prison, the Ascian is shaken and weakened, experiencing sensations he likely never considered possible. The previously large mass of dark aether stills and withdraws into itself in strange, instinctual defense. The only light in the shadow comes from a tiny, pale crystal he produces, far smaller than Moenbryda's auracite.

Minfilia wails; Moenbryda cries in frustration, pain, and rage. You barely hear them. All that exists is the darkness.

 _Nabriales' form, strewn across the floor._

You try to force the image away, but it was seared into your eyes and burned into your memory, doubtless a nightmare that will plague you for moons to come. You could not destroy him, you irrational, weak, _pathetic_ excuse for a Warrior of Light, but you can still stop him. No matter how little energy remains in the staff, Nabriales will not obtain Tupsimati.

Your breaths are short and ragged, your hands shaky, but now that you are outside of the Rift, soaked in Mor Dhona's concentrated aether, you still have the strength to teleport. Preventing his escape is your only priority, the only thought that remains clear in the chaos. He does not need aetheryte; you will drag him with you. The cast is longer than usual, but the Ascian, too, struggles to return to his domain. Each second feels as if it is an eternity, the spell slipping, your focus dimming; it is through sheer determination that you force yourself to complete the familiar ability, knowing only that you must get Nabriales to where you are strongest.

Your body disappears, taking only the Ascian and his crystal with it, dragging him into the formless space alongside you. He struggles against your command, but you continue to pull, guided by the aetheryte in Camp Tranquil. Nabriales stubbornly refuses to yield; you are weakened and he has far more experience with teleportation than your instinctive, aetheryte-driven movement. The Ascian uses his little remaining strength and forces you both out of the spell in a way you were unaware was even possible.

Head pounding, dazed from the immediate loss of control, you only vaguely recognize that your body manifests safely. Your strength gone, caring only that you remain whole and safe, you allow yourself a show of weakness and collapse, body met by soft leaves and grasses and the scent of wet soil after a rain.

You intuitively reach out, letting the familiar forest aether permeate you. You've made it – perhaps not to where you intended, but you live and are somewhere deep in the Shroud, far from the civilization of Gridania. A short-lived, shallow euphoria revitalizes you. You are exhilarated that you still remain whole, your goal achieved despite earlier failure. Minfilia and Moenbryda are safe, Nabriales does not have the staff, and you are surrounded by aether you know intimately well to use to prevent any of Nabriales' further foolishness, if you must.

Your eyes dart over to the Ascian.

Sensing the danger has passed, your stubborn companion, too, slowly, ever so slowly, reforms. His crystal is reabsorbed into his aether, the large mass defining itself, expanding and stretching outwards into limbs, thickening and layering into muscles and flesh.

The Ascian falls to his knees, releasing a grunt of pain. You force yourself from the welcoming, comforting soil and meet his gaze.

There is only silence, betrayal, and pain. There are too many words, you could easily fill a book; there are no words, none that truly matter. Where do you start? Where do you end? Why are you upset at an inevitability?

"Fool!" You finally snap in frustration, all of your emotions poured into the single, exhausting exclamation, unsure if you refer to yourself, Nabriales, or the both of you.

"A clever ploy." Nabriales' breaths are ragged and far heavier than yours; despite his seeming praise, there is only scorn in his voice, as betrayed by you as you were by him. "A shame the meddler did not anticipate our-"

You ignore the rest of his feigned bravado. You, too, did not anticipate your inability to execute the Scions' carefully-prepared plan – one that, now that you've tested it, you are certain would have worked, save for the tiny setback known as human fallibility.

Nabriales has failed too; he is in no position to challenge you. Defeated by a Warrior of Light who is no longer a Warrior of Light, whose Blessing is shrouded and unusable, his soul almost torn apart in the process, it is no wonder that the Ascian is as shamed as you are, compensating with defensive hubris.

You half expect him to mock you for your weakness; he would be right to do so.

You've made an irredeemable mistake. Perhaps you truly are unworthy of Her blessing; Midgardsormr remains blessedly silent, if he even remains at all.

"Just be quiet." You bite out, alarmed when the Ascian immediately complies.

You tear your eyes from Nabriales' face at his abnormal reaction, examining him. Nabriales suffers; though his newly-formed body looks unharmed, he is clearly weakened. His jaw clenches his pain, his muscles are tense, and he exudes his dark aether, unable to keep it contained; it is a strange, floating intangible blood that should be impossible to see unaided.

You are the cause of his suffering. He is the cause of yours. A fair trade, perhaps.

 _Nabriales' broken form on the floor, limbs twisted, hood fallen, robes torn from your countless spells._

You've lost any remaining pride when it comes to interactions the Ascian; you do not bother rising, instead you crawl over to him, placing a hand over the soft robes - robes you've been embraced in more times than you remember, robes you no longer fear - that cover his chest. The air, the soil, and the water are filled with aether; you have enough remaining energy for this.

 _Please, Elementals, offer me your strength,_ you habitually offer the expected formality as you draw the air and mold, the element's touch warm and erratic even to those with the greatest ability to manipulate it.

The dancing gales burst from your fingers, begging to explore his essence at your pushes you away indiscriminately, with unexpected ferocity. The reaction is unsurprising; many initially try to push a healer's concentrated foreign aether from them. The true skill to healing is the ability to bypass the natural forms of self-defense the body employs. You frown, disapproving and uncertain, before trying again more gently, emphasizing to yourself the importance of remembering that the aether is what an Ascian _is_ , and you are introducing foreign energy into the location most private and vulnerable.

His entire body goes rigid and his internal aetheric flow, already disturbed, becomes overwhelmingly erratic at your second probe. It gathers around the unnatural presence in repulsion, but slowly regulates itself, the wells calming, returning to a less focused, volatile flow as Nabriales wills himself calm.

Kneeling beside him, you grasp his hand, offering what little comfort you can for his pain. With your free hand, you press his chest gently, pushing him so that he rests on the Shroud's soft leaflitter below you.

"I will never hear the end of this." Nabriales murmurs. He stares straight up at you, mood unreadable, even with your experience.

"…Nor will I." You are resigned to your fate; no doubt Minfilia already suspects something, what with the ease you followed Nabriales and the visceral passion of your argument in the Rift.

What a pair you make, two fools, too stubborn to yield to the responsibility demanded of them. You should have told the Scions everything you knew long ago, using it to your advantage; he should never have been with you at all, Elidibus forbidding interference.

Even after you trapped his essence and plotted to destroy his soul, Nabriales still permits you to touch him. He still trusts you, perhaps now more than ever, any doubts of the depth and sincerity of your relationship dispelled.

The pressure on your heart slightly alleviates, the knowledge of your bond solidified. You express your affection wordlessly as you press the air into him, as delicately as feather brushing flesh, using all the discipline you can muster in your weariness.

Nabriales clenches your hand at the contact with the wind, shuddering deeply, aether reacting in a way oddly reminiscent of skin forming goosepimples. The claws on his gloves dig into you, but you barely feel them, focus entirely on the strange, foreign entity submitting to you. At a cursory glance, his basic anatomy, or as much of it as an Ascian can have, consists of chaotic aether anchored around a core; if there is a pattern to the swift flow, you cannot immediately recognize it. Nabriales is as his aether: unpredictable, impulsive, and stubborn.

You expand your search, staying far away his sensitive center. The aether movement of an Ascian is very similar to that of an Eorzean; expansive and thorough throughout and around the core, but protected by a flexible but impenetrable boundary layer that prevents manipulation of another's innate energy. The Echo breaks these barriers easily and allows you to resonate with the minds and memories of others. In contrast, the Ascian's boundary is unbelievably powerful, unlike any you've encountered; all others in the past fell to you, even with unintentional contact. Unless Nabriales willingly draws the barrier down, if such a thing is even possible, you recognize that it is impossible for you to pierce it. Without flesh to protect him in his true form, you are certain this barrier is all that protects the Ascian from external elements.

The barrier is the problem; it seems to have been weakened. Nabriales' aether leaks through, porous. The leak is slow; you would not be surprised the barrier can heal, much like your skin might from a cut, given time. It seems your persistent casting on him in the battle had more of a direct effect than you initially thought; the complete destruction of that barrier would no doubt have left him incapacitated and forced into the Rift for a very long time.

You firmly press the wind onto the boundary from the outside; it does not reject you, now that you've left the defended center, but the external aether has no effect on the leaking, even as you change your focus, molding differently and trying more traditional cures to remove the holes in his equivalent of flesh.

With a frustrated sigh, you release the wind; you can do nothing, you are not nearly well studied enough in the concept of natural boundary layers to be able to restore or manipulate his. Nabriales must recover on his own.

Such powerlessness is unfamiliar and unwelcome.

"Elidibus will no doubt prostrate himself before the Scions." Nabriales takes advantage of your pause and withdrawal to lash out the easiest target. Though clearly weakened, Nabriales does not seem to find the leaking you discovered terribly odd at all and, after some time resting, seems to have regained some control. You suppose, to him, that it is very much like bleeding. "That woman will stick her nose where it does not belong."

"On and on and on she'll go." You repeat his familiar words, your discussion with Minfilia just as dreaded and unpleasant as Nabriales' with Elidibus will be. Questions upon questions will be asked, the explanations demanded of you impossible.

Perhaps the Scions would not have cared about your relationship and would have left you to your own devices had it been revealed earlier and not endangered everyone's lives **,** but it was not and it did **.** Now that the time for admission has passed and you were unable to fulfill your responsibilities, "I wanted to be with him" and "I love him" seem terribly shallow when placed beside protecting Eorzea and Hydaelyn.

"They are well suited for one another." Nabriales cringes; you stroke his face, turning back to _him_ ; you doubt you'll have a chance like this with a weakened Ascian again.

Professional curiosity drives you as you draw the water; it is cool, soft, calming aether not at all similar to Nabriales'. As you press the aether below his boundary, there is no shudder like there was with the wind. His reaction is far more subtle, but much stronger, like leaning into a lover as you rest together in bed. You would have barely noticed it at all if you were not looking for it, but this time he _follows_ you, giving, submitting.

You breathe in quietly, entirely unsure at what you feel, wondering if you simply hallucinate the difference in your fatigue. Nabriales may have greater restraint now, compelling the earlier natural repulsion to the foreign presence down; if not that, the different element has a dramatically different effect on him. You try again, more quickly this time, with a simple, soft brush of air directly under his boundary, no more than a wispy kiss.

Nabriales shudders, the aether teasing at him strongly enough that his physical body releases a light tremor.

"Enough." His demand lacks energy. The Ascian's tone brings forth a stray memory of the flirty, breathy begging of girls in the streets of Limsa who do not want their partner to caress them in front of others, yet continue to grope and stroke said partner publicly with equal laugh softly, drawing the water once again, well beyond exhaustion. You are no longer sure _why_ you do what you do and you certainly do not care, your mind taking simple pleasure at the Ascian's response to contact.

With each single stroke of water, Nabriales' aether gives slightly, drawn with your manipulation. He does not shudder; the water loosens the tenseness of your immediate entry, so that Nabriales need not focus so intensely to allow you entry. While the knowledge may be useful in the future, you are far more focused on the pleasant massage the aether seems to have on him, the way he follows and bends, the only way you've found to calm his natural flow, to smooth out the impulsiveness and calm the unpredictability.

After such a difficult battle, pressed by Nabriales, dodging and shielding yourself from spells that would have destroyed your body had they landed, draining your internal aether and defending yourself only through honed reflexes, you find it intensely satisfying to have the Ascian under your command.

Hesitantly, you withdraw and release the water. Almost immediately Nabriales tenses, the relaxing effect of your caress gone. Compared to what he can do to you, what he _has_ done to you, your manipulation of the power of the elements must seem impersonal, perhaps even distant, but he reacts to its removal nonetheless, and seeks its return.

You are cautious when you draw the stone, the embodiment of pressure; it is hard, safe, and enveloping. Nabriales' expertise with the element makes yours look like a child trying to mold aether in a way they do not understand. The stone seems to crumb and stick inside of Nabriales' barrier, not traveling easily, building up and forcing a well, damming the flow where water previously eased it. It almost seems to partition and guide the path, in places, limiting the movement and preventing the cyclic transfer from one area to another.

Nabriales presses hard against you, rejecting the aether forcefully. You immediately concede, recognizing that such aether passage limitations would inevitably cause undue pain. In your attempts at teasing, you have caused more problems than you solved, but, if you can work to mold the stone and water, you may be able to -

Before you can even finish considering your next exploratory tease, Nabriales, seemingly finally irritated at your games, pulls you down atop him. Weakened and focused as you are, you fall easily and willingly to him, letting him draw his arms over you. His strange, dark, bleeding aether visibly surrounds you, dulling your senses, but he no longer seems to be in immediate pain.

You do not know how long you rest there, unmoving and reticent in his arms, your breaths heavy, your eyes closed, consciousness fading in and out to the sound of birds and insects, to the wisps of air, to the scent of moist soil. The depths of the Shroud have never been more releasing or welcoming.

"I should return." When you finally regain your senses, night has fallen. Your first words to Nabriales after hours of peace are filled with longing and regret. Your body aches and your mind is tender; Nabriales is succor and liberation.

"Leave them to their fretting. We will return later." He does not loosen his grip; the Ascian has no intention of releasing you. He clutches at you desperately, as if never able to embrace you again. You cling to his Hyur-form with equal strength and bury yourself as deeply into him as possible. "We've done our duties. If your Goddess cannot see your devotion, then she must be colder and more fickle than she appears."

"And Elidibus?" Nabriales acted just as irresponsibly as you when he approached Tupsimati, perhaps Elidibus would be justified in punishing him -if an Ascian can even be punished.

"I've done nothing to endanger our plans." You've no doubt that Nabriales' plans, however, are a lost, crumbling ruin, impossible to repair no matter the time and resources. "He might have celebrated, had you succeeded."

As it always does, your better sense presses for you to return, your conscience ready to once again scold you for your incompetence and irresponsibility. As with everything Nabriales, you drive them away, better sense and conscience surrendering to emotion. With so much expected of you, you've earned some time for comfort and affection.

"Later, then." You concede, without regret. There is much to be done later, to be spoken of, but for now, there is only Nabriales.

* * *

A general note about these stories: Aether is not normally visible unless extremely concentrated, such as during certain weather in Mor Dhona. In the battle with Nabriales (and Lahabrea/Igeyorhm) you can see their dark aether leaking and surrounding them. You also see Nabriales' aether form in the cutscene. Ascian aether seems to be concentrated enough for you to see unaided.

To Ad3vanto3: Thank you again, so much, for your wonderful reviews. If you have any preferences on what you'd like to see (eg, Elidibus likes cudding), let me know.


	8. Elidibus: The Warrior's Unpleasant Night

Summary: _Set after 'Keeping the Flame Alive' and before 'To Siege or Not to Siege.' As an apology for Ishgard's treatment of the Warrior's companions, the Warrior and friends are invited to a traditional Ishgardian holiday ceremony hosted by the Archbishop and the Holy See._

 _One thing's for certain: the Warrior of Light is never going to a party again. Paranoia, public displays, and crack._

 _Note:_ This is crack. There are some darker themes to it early on, but please don't take it too seriously.

 _ **The Warrior of Light and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Night**_

* * *

You are unsure what is more bitter, the stagnant, ill-stored wine, or you.

The room smells of furs and leathers, far stronger than any spice or perfume can cover, and moisture from the melting snowflakes on the complex garments of the nobility clings to your skin. Though it may just be from the wine, the air is far warmer and stickier than it has any right to be when a blizzard rages outside.

A party this size no doubt took moons to prepare; brightly colored decorations hang from the rafters and encircle the pillars. At the end of the vast chamber stands a statue of the Fury, a silent guardian large enough to be seen from even the farthest corners. At her base rests an assortment of plants and flowers, as well as ceremonial gifts offering thanks for her protection and guidance.

If the Fury is protecting and guiding you, she is certainly doing an abysmal job of it. You take another sip of the bitter wine, swallowing it before it touches your tongue.

Another Elezen calls you over with one of those feigned smiles plastered on his face. You offer an equally fabricated one, introducing yourself as the Archbishop's guest and, yes, you were the one who stopped the Heretics and Vishap at the Gates of Judgement, and indeed, you were also the one who defeated the Heaven's Ward in combat in front of the tribunal. The same story, repeated countless times this night, no doubt to be repeated another two-score more before the festivities end.

Your eyes glance over the hands and clothing of the nobleman instinctively. His hands are soft, not calloused; if he has any weapon hidden under the thick furs, he has not spent prolonged time using it recently. He is no threat.

You refused to leave your weapon at the door, no matter how strongly the members of the Holy See pressed. It was only when Lucia spoke for you that they allowed you to pass while armed; even now their invisible eyes remain on you.

It is unlike you to be so sour, but you learned your lesson from Ul'dah. Your weapon stays with you.

The room is filled with joyful laughter and countless voices over the soft clink of glasses and the barest howl of wind from outside the thick walls. It is just quiet enough for you to ignore, if you wanted to go rest by yourself in a corner – no doubt Tataru would pull you away the moment you tried – but just loud enough that the footsteps of someone following you would be difficult to discern.

You take a long sip, trying to calm overly frayed nerves. You are going to regret these drinks soon, you know, as supper has not been served and the tiny snacks on the table look as appetizing as goobue dung.

You excuse yourself from the nobleman and escape over to the table holding bottled wine, pouring another glass and refusing to imagine Nanamo's suffering face as you do so. It's impossible for the wine to be poisoned, you know full well, as everyone in the room would be dead already if it was. Not even the most devoted of Heretics would be mad enough to slaughter a room full of unarmed innocents.

You take another sip; you're being completely absurd and you're well aware of it. There is no Syndicate here to benefit from incapacitating you; the Ascians would not move so openly in an attempt to maim you. To the Ishgardian upper class, you're little more than a circus attraction, a powerful curiosity tamed and favored by the Archbishop, Aymeric, and Count Fortemps.

There is nothing to fear.

While you are so focused on the wine, you almost fall into the table when a powerful, unknown force rams you. You react immediately, turning to your 'attacker,' only to be faced with a red-faced and laughing Elezen male. He profusely apologizes for running into you, his balance off from a few too many glasses. Upon scanning the offender, your eyes are immediately drawn to his sword. Your heart pounds, adrenaline racing; you almost draw your weapon, before realizing the Elezen's sword is completely ornamental.

You're a paranoid fool. The wine isn't dulling your senses like you intended, it's making them more severe. No doubt you look like a lunatic, jumping at shadows and turning at the slightest sound.

You take another long drink and place the glass on the table.

Escape. You need air; you need freedom and space and the bitter chill of the blizzard. You excuse yourself quietly, aware that the gentry around you do not truly care, if they even hear you at all, the words are only for Tataru and Alphinaud when they no doubt come searching for you.

You've no idea where a balcony may be, but you're certain there must be one somewhere. Ishgard has balconies everywhere in the most unexpected places. You push your way through the mass of bodies and enter the hallways. There are fewer people here, in these separate side rooms, their discussions muted and private. It would be easier to see an attacker and safer to defend against one.

You almost draw your weapon when he steps from the shadows, making his presence known. There is no window, and certainly no fresh air, but your mind clears nonetheless upon seeing his familiar host body. You approach Elidibus with far more haste than is proper.

You say nothing and do not bother to meet his eyes as you clutch at the Ascian, burying yourself deeply in the safety and comfort he provides, encircling him with your arms. There are no swords, no poisons, no dragons, and no nobles who fuss over you; for the first time since arriving for the event, and perhaps for the first time since your entry into Ishgard, you feel truly safe. You kiss him softly.

"Mind your surroundings." Elidibus offers you a chaste kiss and murmurs; there are still others about who watch, but none who dare interfere. You bury your face even further, until each of your breaths are reflected and you must pull away so that the air is not so dense.

"If I minded them any further, I'd be convinced half of the nobility wants me out of the city and the other half wants me dead for some heresy or another." You allow relief to enter your voice, letting Elidibus know just how much you've missed his presence. He has not visited since before your struggle with Nabriales. "I've missed you."

"You've caused quite a bit of trouble." Despite the scolding words, he does not seem angry. "You are not surprised that I am here."

"Your ally parts with information quite freely." You offer, evading the unspoken question as best you can: with the truth. Elidibus says nothing at that, but the answer seemingly satisfies him. He draws his face closer, relaxing his cheek against yours, mask pressing into your skin.

"What a pleasant surprise." A voice breaks you out of your peaceful embrace and footsteps approach, signifying the words are intended for you. "Lucia told me of your arrival, but I didn't expect to find you so easily."

"Ser Aymeric." You lift your face from Elidibus and offer the Elezen a respectful smile. The Ascian is not annoyed at the disruption and simply continues to hold you. You have never loved the Emissary's calming, comfortable aura more.

"Are you enjoying our annual festivities?" Aymeric, doubtless intensely curious about the intimate situation, unlike any he has ever seen you in before, has the class to say nothing about your strange companion.

You push down the urge to answer that no, you really are not enjoying the festivities, but even partially intoxicated, paranoid, and completely bitter, you know better than to show such rudeness to your allies. "It was gracious of the Archbishop to invite us." You avoid answering, hoping Aymeric does not push the pleasantries.

"I wish the invitation had not arose from such unpleasant circumstances." Aymeric continues. He is kind and you sense his words are genuine. At any other time, you would have welcomed his presence, but he currently disrupts your very rare, very comforting time with your lover. "Especially after. . ." The Elezen pauses, seemingly unsure how to breach the subject of Ul'dah. Even with Elidibus' presence sedating your nerves, your lips set themselves in a firm line. Aymeric is no fool and he demonstrates his remarkable proficiency in reading people; he undoubtedly recognizes how uncomfortable this is for you.

Before you can consider a response, another voice, far too boisterous and excited for the quiet chamber and for the headache you can feel coming on, echoes.

"Ah, my friend, there you are! Some claimed to have saw your esca-" Haurchefant's open excitement, typically contagious, only sets you on edge and opens a deep pit of dread in your stomach.

"Who is _this_?" Haurchefant stops himself and examines the man holding you. His eyes visibly draw up and down the Ascian's host body; his earlier pleasant demeanor turns dour, the smile frequently on his lips turns to a frown. No doubt Elidibus seems strange to him, with his decorative pale robes and mask. The Emissary is obviously a foreigner at an event where very few foreigners are invited. Haurchefant looks over to Aymeric, who keeps his expression carefully neutral, and questions. "Should we detain him?"

"No!" You interrupt quickly, doubting that Aymeric will be able to calm this particular beast. "No. That's not necessary." Haurchefant looks clearly disbelieving. "This is. . ." You breathe deeply, unsure how to explain. You are not prone to lying, but with Elidibus clutching at your waist in a warning of caution, you go with the loosest answer you can think of. ". . .a guest of the Archbishop."

Haurchefant's eyes remain on Elidibus, lingering on where his arms circle around your waist. Elidibus offers the Elezen the barest of nods, little more than acknowledging his existence, but Haurchefant pays no heed. "Guest. Indeed." Disbelief and sarcasm taint Haurchefant's normally-pleasant voice.

Finally tearing his eyes from the Ascian, Haurchefant focuses his attention on you, seemingly deciding the man in white is not worth his attention. "You disappeared so suddenly, I feared the worst."

"You needn't worry for me." You try to console him, but you unexpectedly worsen the situation.

"Of course I do! I leave you for a moment and you're inebriated in the arms of a strange man." Haurchefant explodes, his voice echoing down the hall. The few guests in the small side chamber focus their eyes on you. You turn back to Elidibus, whose face betrays nothing with its permanent amiable smile; his body language remains neutral, making it impossible to discern his thoughts.

"Haurchefant, there was a matter I needed your assistance with." Aymeric interrupts suddenly and grasps the arm of the other man. Haurchefant's attention is drawn from you, clearly disbelieving Aymeric's ploy.

Before Haurchefant can offer any argument, Aymeric firmly takes a hold of the pale-haired Elezen's arm and pulls, guiding him down the hall, speaking in a low voice.

You release a breath you did not know you were holding and press your eyes closed. Sensing your distress, Elidibus moves a hand to your shoulders, stroking the back of your neck and face. You allow yourself to melt into him, silently thanking the Ascian for his intuition. Sometimes, you really just wish everything could be simple like this; with his caresses, you forget that you are the Warrior of Light and he is an Ascian. Instead you are simply two people who cherish each other's company above all others.

"There you are!" While not quite a screech, the holler is far too loud and your muscles, just starting to relax, tense, your heart beating far more rapidly. _Please, please, please Hydaelyn,_ you silently pray, _don't let that be_ -"Oooooh, who's this?" Tataru Taru runs up to you, with far more energy than anyone has a right to have.

Tataru, seemingly excited and having forgotten why she initially sought you, looks over your partner quickly, intensely curious, having never seen an Ascian in a host. "I didn't know you were into that type." She declares, seemingly making a decision, before offering you a bright, genuine smile that warms your heart. "Well, we all have our absurdities! It's certainly not my place to judge. I'm sure he's wonderful."

"Tataru, wait!" The warmth in your heart turns to ice. Alphinaud, out of breath from trying to deal with Tataru's boundless energy, examines the scene before him. "What. . .?" His eyes stare blankly at first, and a soft blush forms on his cheeks when he sees what you've been doing, before his mind seemingly speeds up, recognizing everything wrong about the situation. "That's -!" Alphinaud pulls his grimoire out with impressive boldness and stands in front of you and Elidibus, ready to fight.

You want nothing more than to hide your head and pretend this is a dream. You can definitely hear Elidibus chuckling now, the traitor.

"I can explain." No, no, you _really_ cannot. You attempt to calm yourself, but with the frantic way Alphinaud darts his eyes over the Ascian in seeming determination to attack, the earlier panic you felt from Tataru's and Haurchefant's presence seems like little more than a breathless jog to your burning heart.

Those earlier glasses of wine certainly are not helping you find the right words, either.

"Alphinaud!" Tataru, Hydaelyn bless her, puts her hands on her hips and stands in front of the young Elezen. "Don't take that tone. This is wonderful! We should be happy for them."

"Tataru, that's –" Alphinaud looks unsure of how to convince the misguided Lalafell that yes, you really are standing there being held and massaged by the Scions' enemy.

"Enough!" She interrupts firmly and all but stomps over to the young man, tugging at his wrist. "Come now, Alphinaud, we're clearly interrupting."

You've heard an idiom from the poetic, perhaps it was even Thancred: _if looks could kill_. The phrase is surprisingly astute and you are absolutely certain you would be dead on the floor alongside Elidibus if such a thing was in the realm of possibility. You return Alphinaud's frustrated, dangerous stare with one as flat and unreadable as you can manage.

Finally relenting, recognizing this is not a battle he can win, Alphinaud allows himself to be dragged away. The look the young Elezen gives you over his shoulder holds the silent promise that, once you return to Fortemps Manor, you're going to explain _everything_.

You have never been more thankful for Tataru's interference. You vow that you'll aid her in any menial tasks for the next six moons as thanks for her actions.

"Your companions are lively." Elidibus seems amused, but you get the feeling his amusement stems less from the antics of mortals and more from your reaction to them.

"Emissary - and the Warrior of Light?" You hold back the pitiful sound that threatens to spill from your throat at yet another disruption, this one far more dangerous than all others. "What a curious pair."

"Archbishop." Elidibus welcomes your new companion, finally breaking his silence in addressing someone other than you. As with Haurchefant, he offers the slightest of nods, just deep enough to not be disrespectful. The Ascian's hand falls and grasps yours, tightening; you recognize it as a sign to let him solve this particular problem. After the earlier messes, you easily oblige. "We were in the midst of discussion." Elidibus' tone is a bit tighter than normal, the only sign that he is discontent. If you did not know him so well, you'd have read it as pleasant and warm.

The Archbishop had not hidden his dealings with the Ascians from you, but he had not clarified what those dealings entailed. He holds as much back from you as he does from them. Despite that knowledge, you hold your tongue, knowing better than to sour relations with the Holy See.

"A discussion, was it?" The gentle, kindly smile does not leave the Archbishop's face, nor does his pleasant tone change. It only makes you even more nervous; the man seems to be re-assessing his plans. "Perhaps, Ascian, you are unfamiliar with our ways. One does not usually hold such 'discussions' publicly," the Archbishop motions to Elidibus' arm around you "let alone during a Holy celebration."

"Is it truly inappropriate for bonded partners to show intimacy?" Elidibus puts on a bored air, distinctly unamused at the formalities.

All that resonates with you, regardless of the Archbishop's passive hostility and Elidibus' formality, are the words you never expected to hear from his lips. For the first time, the Ascian has publicly acknowledged your relationship. Tataru's support earlier warmed you, but in comparison, the affection and love you feel welling in you is very reminiscent of a volcano; you want to jump and dance and kiss him. Almost all of your earlier paranoia and bitterness are swept away, the wine finally having its intended effect.

Thordan's eyes dart back and forth between you and the Ascian; he plans something. The man's initial knowledge of your relationship with the Ascians was correct, Elidibus is simply an anomaly, but now the Archbishop has reason to distrust you. Elidibus shows no reaction, but you are certain he recognizes the change in the Elezen as well.

"Of course, but please, I ask that you respect our traditions and keep such displays private." Again the Archbishop smiles; the expression sets you on edge more than any threats can.

"Perhaps we could have a conference without interference?" Though Thordan makes no motion towards you, it is clear exactly what he refers to by 'interference.'

Elidibus nods, but his next words are unexpected. "Lahabrea will accommodate you. The responsibility is in his hands now." The Emissary releases your hand and motions slightly to the far corner of the room. Thordan turns and your eyes follow; said Ascian remains in the distance, still, watching, watching, ever watching.

Thordan offers no farewell to you or Elidibus as he leaves, moving to the far corner to speak with Lahabrea.

"Is that wise?" You whisper; Elidibus has mentioned Lahabrea's difficult and disagreeable nature in the past and you have encountered it firsthand. Leaving him in charge of relations with the Archbishop seems unprecedented.

Even as Thordan speaks, Lahabrea's gaze does not leave you and Elidibus.

"Not at all." The Emissary brings his mouth to yours in a kiss, drawing you close once again, pressing his hand into your back so that any distance is negated and he can easily access all of you.

When he finally releases you, you're breathless and panting, but you recognize Elidibus' intent. Now you're an instrument in some impossible to understand inter-Ascian struggle. Thordan, too, continues to plot with the Ascians, but now without Elidibus' buffer to stymie Lahabrea's scorn. No doubt the Archbishop believes you are plotting with them as well.

What a mess.

All that remains to sour your night is an attack by the Dravanian Horde.

At the sound of a bell's familiar toll, loud enough to be heard throughout the Vault, any remaining warmth inside you dies and your head drops, eyes boring a hole into the floor. What have you done, that Hydaelyn hates you so? You attempt to pull from Elidibus regretfully, grasping for your weapon.

The Emissary chuckles, more loudly than before, and refuses to let you go. "It seems supper has been served. Go eat and do try to enjoy yourself." Elidibus murmurs and offers you a final kiss, nipping at your bottom lip in silent promise that you will see him soon, before he fades into the darkness.

* * *

To Ad3vanto3: Yes, I know what you're talking about. It's the end of 2.1. Interesting prompt, I'll try to think of something innovative to play with for you, since I don't just want to rewrite it. Thank you!


	9. Elidibus, Zodiark: Void

Summary: _Post 2.55, pre-Heavensward. Knowing the Warrior of Light suffers after the betrayal at Ul'dah, Elidibus bids the Warrior to a remote ruin in Coerthas so that they may have some comforting, safe time alone together. Because it seems impossible for the Emissary to do anything in a traditional manner, Elidibus enacts one of his strange Ascian trials as soon as the Warrior arrives._

Notes: For the requests/prompts - _Elidibus; kinky 2.1-styled hide-and-seek_ and _seductive whispers_.

I hope this is kinky enough for you, Ad3vanto3! It is a bit abstract and less sexual than I originally intended, but sometimes writing gets away from you like that.

 ** _Void_**

* * *

It is not a normal portal.

You wish you had known before you touched the strange thing, but Elidibus beckoned you as he disappeared through and you assumed you were intended to follow. Perhaps in the future you should endeavor to consider that not everything created for Ascian use will be safe for you – not that it has stopped you before.

The teleportation seems almost sticky, slow moving and viscous, clinging to your entire being as it ushers you along; it is very precise and controlled, but at the same time you feel like you're being directed in the most indirect way possible. It almost reminds you of. . .

You come up with nothing. It is familiar, yet unknown, slipping away like a word at the back of your mind.

Just as slowly as it transported you, the portal restores your body, lagging enough in the reformation that you feel like you're being retched from a giant beast's stomach, feet first.

Instinctively, you rub your hands over your features, feeling that the process was secure and that you are unharmed. You half expect your hands to come away with a strange residue, but there is nothing other than a thin layer of dust that likely came from the abandoned temple and a slight dampness from the melted snowflakes of Coerthas.

Satisfied that you are unharmed, you look about and get a feel for your surroundings. Or you would, were there any surroundings to see; there is nothing but darkness. Even the darkest night could not be this enveloping and pure. If you were not standing on some sort of solid ground, you might have considered the teleportation a failure, or perhaps even that you were not entirely conscious at all. It may yet be a spell, you caution yourself, Elidibus' plans unknowable.

There are no sounds in the darkness, nor is there any of the wintery scent or chill you've come to associate with Coerthas. If you were underground, you would at least expect to smell the tang of soil. There is no breeze across your skin; it as if the entire world has come to a halt and you are the only creature capable of movement within the lonely dimension.

You kneel, wary, and brush your fingers across the floor. Smooth, almost silky, cool, marble-like stone lays below you, flawless and without even the thinnest coat of dust. Your only conclusion is that you're in an extension of the temple above, or, perhaps, within the true part of it.

You curse Elidibus and his games; _this_ was why his message requested you leave your sack at Dragonhead. You obliged, believing his summons to be little more than a quiet personal outing, so all you brought was your weapon; you doubt even that will do much good in this place. At least the last time the Emissary decided to enact one of these absurd tests he provided you with tangible enemies.

"What is this place?" You question, feeling as if your voice taints the still air, knowing with absolute certainty that Elidibus watches.

Unsurprisingly, you receive no answer.

Pushing yourself up from your kneel, you walk cautiously, one arm in front of you and one to the side, tapping with your foot before putting weight onto each step in case the floor is fragile or there is a ledge or stair. To feel so helpless so soon after -

You reject the thought before it can fill you and focus on annoyance instead. Once this is finished, you and Elidibus are going to have an emphatic discussion about how one does not 'test' their lover against their will, regardless of traditions.

You finally find the path out of what seems to be a small room the teleporter deposited you in. Letting the smooth wall guide you, you move, slowly and awkwardly, like a malformed, one-legged chocobo hatchling, through the strange temple. The path twists and turns, right and right and left, then right again, until your mind loses track of the labyrinthine structure and time passes both impossibly fast and slower than the tiniest slime.

Your head lightens as you move through the hall, tingling, but far from numb. Rightfully, distant logic dictates that you should want nothing more than to leave this place, yet you feel compelled to continue, almost like you've gained a single-minded devotion to progression. It is not as if you have another choice in the matter; the only way you're going to find Elidibus and return is by going forward, obeying whatever it is that commands you. You imagine this is how the Tempered must feel.

After what seems to be days, or perhaps only minutes - your hands are not bleeding, raw, or even sore from touching of the walls for guidance, so it could not have been terribly long - there is finally _something_. You blink rapidly and rub your eyes as you continue forward, unsure it is there at all until you draw close to a light source.

A strange, deep purple light floats in the center of the hall, seemingly a sourceless mass of energy; there is no torch on the pale, grey wall, nor is there any sign of aether being used to illuminate the area, it simply _is_. The temple walls reach up and up and up yet more; if there is a roof, you cannot see it, the light fading well before it reaches the top.

You lower your gaze and stare through the light. Standing across from you, just outside the edge of the tapering purple, is Elidibus.

The Ascian says nothing; he does not acknowledge your presence. Your shadow, dragged out by the glow, stretches unnaturally over to him, shading his features. It continues stretching, enlarging well beyond its normal size, covering the pale-robed Emissary, shuddering, dancing and touching him with elongated, unnaturally thin fingers.

You take a step back in caution, but your shadow does not withdraw with you and instead continues its strange dance, Elidibus completely impassive in its grasp. You draw back again, lowering yourself into a defensive posture.

The shadow slowly turns its featureless head, around and around and around, well beyond completely backwards, to face you. Its grotesquely long body somehow lifts itself off Elidibus by twisting its limbs, ankles, knees and elbows bending in a way the body of no Spoken race should bend, and solidifying. You draw your weapon; your shadow mimics you and draws its dark weapon, its every step identical to yours other than its shuddering. If there was a weak fire on a windy night, the shadow would not be abnormal, dancing and moving and inconsistent, but there is no fire. The purple light does not falter, remaining constant.

You take another step back, far out of the light, and the shadow dissipates completely; it releases a low wail, panicked and agonized, identical to your own voice. Your head splits and you release a gasp in turn, letting your weapon fall to the floor. You grasp your head until your fingers pound, pressing your eyes closed, breaths heavily forced from your throat, your body trembling and shuddering almost as deeply as the shadow was moments before.

"It will be over soon; do not resist." Elidibus finally speaks, behind you; his voice is strange, distant, and accented. He moves close, so that his chest presses against your back, his presence somehow heavy and simultaneously weightless as he runs a hand through your hair, dragging a clawed glove down the side of your neck; you barely feel it. He whispers, lips teasing at your cheek "Reject the shadow." The pain dulls and your head slowly clears as the shadow's screams fade. "Embrace the shadows." You allow yourself to lean back into the Ascian as he draws his free hand down yours shoulders, abdomen, and thighs, little more than a gentle stroke or tickle before he fades, once again, into nothingness.

"Curse you, Elidibus, this is not the time for riddles." You snap, little more than a gasp, voice broken from your earlier harsh pants. Even if he has teleported away, you are certain he can hear you.

" _There is no better time."_ He speaks into your mind with alarming clarity, like Hydaelyn at her full strength might; you were unaware Elidibus was even capable of such things. You are in his realm now; whatever his capabilities, they must surely be amplified. At least the solution to his puzzle is as clear as his voice in your head – stay out of the light – but the ease of which you were able to solve it makes you believe that there may be more to the Ascian's layered words.

Before you can consider further, he touches you, the warm, familiar aether soothing and spreading from your head down, lower, lower, coursing through your heart, beating through you until your entire body warms and you shiver; you are certain this type of foreign aether manipulation is detrimental to your body's health and you absently attempt to push it away, mind not clear or strong enough in this place to reject him with true force. Elidibus relents easily, but the tingling, commanding pressure from before returns, demanding you submit to him. The Emissary offers only vague advice: _"There is but one path; do not fear. Trust."_

This is absolute absurdity. There is no reason for this nonsense. You're well and truly mad now, giving into to Elidibus with such ease, you muse as you lift your fallen weapon from the floor and press forward into the darkness, compelled by strange, uncomfortable magic and your lover's voice.

The silence returns, but the stillness does not. As you progress further down the path, the air seems to be saturated under a dark, unnatural fog. Unable to see in the blackness, you are unsure how you're even aware of it, but its presence surrounds and clings to your flesh like warm, thick humidity before a summer rain, but without the warmth or the humidity. You press your hand against the wall for guidance down the passage; it remains dry, untouched by the fog.

Trust, you muse almost lazily in the pounding, tingling haze, seems to be the key to this little game of his. You trusted Elidibus enough to follow him into this temple, you've trusted him with your safety, and you've trusted him that you will not be lost for eternity in an endless labyrinth. You've even trusted his aether, both the soft and the harsh. What more could the Ascian want?

There are no answers to contemplate with Elidibus being so ambiguous, and thinking _hurts_.

The tingle in your head deepens, becoming a pulse. You stop, using the wall to balance yourself, and try again to reject the invasive aether, as you did earlier. It does not budge, each touch only making it seep more deeply into the cracks. Frustrated, you close your eyes and rest your forehead against the cool wall.

When you open your eyes after regaining your self-control, determined to progress down the path, you almost stumble when you realize, no more than two steps later, that _you can see._ It is not sight, not truly, but nor is it as passive as your aether sense. It is fuzzy and distant, like trying to listen to someone speaking to you, just at the very tip of your range of hearing. The words are indiscernible, but you know they are there. What little is left of your logic – if logic is even applicable in this place – whispers that it is impossible to see in complete darkness, but you somehow can recognize where the walls are and how the temple passage around you is structured.

You should be disturbed, but after your prolonged, perpetual blindness, relying solely on touch to slowly progress, you find this sight-that-is-not-sight strangely relieving, as if you've finally attuned properly to your surroundings. If this is a side effect of Elidibus' pulse, then you can endure the discomfort.

With your new gift, travel through the halls eases. There is nothing to see or explore, the path simply an elaborate, twisting passage with no intersections. The pale walls are seamless and unmarred, as if the temple was carved into a single unbelievably large stone and smoothed out over millennia by the movement of water. Despite the twists and turns, there is a definite, persistent downwards slope, deeper and deeper into the depths of Coerthas. Elidibus spoke the truth: there is but one path. It is a long, featureless mass of grey marred only by the sporadic, seemingly random, presence of the sourceless purple light.

 _Where are you_? You demand of the Ascian after the novelty of your sight and curiosity about the temple wears, irritated by this trial, the pain, and the monotonous flawless walls.

"You know where I am." Somehow listening to your thoughts, Elidibus' voice sounds from somewhere in front of you, loud enough that he can be no more than a few paces away, yet you see nothing with your strange vision.

 _Shadowless_ , or, perhaps, simply an embodied shadow with no form to see.

Though you cannot see Elidibus, you can sense when you're within a step of him; the strange, humid fog you've accommodated yourself to that surrounds your body and the tingling pulse that violates your mind seem to clear, giving you a small window of respite. You can feel when he presses his hand to your chest, gentle, delicate, affectionate, resting it over your heart. As if commanded, you automatically lift your hand to meet his grasp as he whispers, barely loud enough to hear: "You're almost mine."

You have been his for quite some time, but your mind is too clouded correct him.

The Emissary lowers his arm; you can feel him turn away. Seemingly close enough to the goal, the Ascian does not teleport. Elidibus simply walks, his slow footsteps shattering the silence. The sound becomes deeper and deeper, louder and more echoing, as if becoming closer while also growing farther into the distance. The sound quickly becomes another deep, impossibly loud pulse; the steps are so powerful that your body vibrates in time with them.

Recognizing the pulse as pressure from Elidibus' aether, commanding you, you push forward, seemingly rejuvenated from the Ascian's acknowledgement. The Emissary seems to clear the path for you, guiding you through the darkness, removing any doubt or fear.

Your head pounds, too, but it is a different pulse, a light, yet heavy sense similar to aether sickness, one that sends you reeling and forces any unnecessary thoughts away. All thoughts that are not about your companion and goal are insignificant.

You walk, unhindered for what seems to be a thousand paces; your mind is in sync with the constant, never-ending, repeated beat, your breath constantly tasting the fog-tainted air. There is no pain or soreness or even weariness; you feel as fresh and alive as any time you can remember.

By the time you reach the fifth – or was it the fourth? – sourceless purple light, you are so light-headed and morbidly curious about this place that you step directly through it, willing to risk the sentient, solid shadows just so you can feel the pain their destruction brought on.

No shadows rise, the deep purple unmarred.

You do not know how long it takes you to reach the end; there is no sense of time in the temple. The only reason you know the trial is over is the presence of absolute, utter, and complete void. The nothingness could go on for only a few paces or a lifetime, but the emptiness is absolute.

"Do you hear it?" Elidibus speaks from behind, as impossible to discern with the sight as he was earlier. You instinctively turn to face the Ascian. The passage behind you through the temple – no, the entire temple – is gone; all that remains in the nothingness is a small platform, little more than a few yalms wide, no longer smooth and pale, but creviced, dark, and impossibly thick.

The Emissary draws close, close, too close - _hot, burning, boiling_ ; perspiration drips from your forehead and over your body, breaths ragged and mouth open as you inhale and exhale rapidly to cool yourself. The only sound to hear is your heart beating heavily, pounding still in time with the pulse that is no longer there.

"Feel. Do not think." Elidibus whispers once again, voice almost silent, yet still clear above your heartbeats. The gentle touch of his aether returns, tingling, teasing warmth spreading, deeper, deeper, deeper over and into your flesh, until your sweaty skin is covered with goosebumps and it penetrates far more thoroughly into your mind than you've let anyone but Hydaelyn into. It burns, but not; it is the touch of the coldest ice or the bite of a harsh wind. It soothes; its stroke is as silken as the water in a crystalline lake or the tip of a fresh, waxy blade of grass.

"Mine." He kisses you hard, so hard that it is painful and you try to pull back, but the pressure is so absolute and desired that you only wordlessly beg for more. You are his and he is yours.

You press your eyes closed, unable to do anything but submit to the Ascian completely, unwilling to do anything but offer your flesh to him. _Minemineminemineminemine_ – Elidibus' soft tone is gone, the single possessive word an echoing tendril that repeats a million times. His voice warps and alters, each repetition an overbearing, emphasizing pound in your head. You want to scream in pain, but his mouth overlaps yours and each kiss ends as a moan of simultaneous burning agony and uncontrollable fluid desire.

When the words finally fade, the heat finally cools, and the liquid stills, your head lightens and the pulse dissipates, as if released from whatever magicks bound it. You open your eyes to the same temple in Coerthas you entered with Elidibus earlier, far more weathered and rough than the one you just spent untold time in. The portal is nowhere to be seen.

"It is unwise for you to explore this place alone." You turn your head immediately at the sound of the familiar voice; Elidibus waits in the doorway for you, the wind tugging at his white robes, the small flakes of snow in the sunlight seemingly creating an aura around him.

"Alone?" You murmur, more dazed than you realized as you lift yourself from the cool floor, stumbling uncharacteristically awkwardly. When had you fallen? You are whole and unharmed; your head still pounds slightly and you are certain you have minor aether sickness, but otherwise you've no evidence Elidibus' odd trial ever occurred. "But we just. . ."

You let the words fade, allowing the sounds to overwhelm your ears, replacing silence, the cool, crisp, dry air to brush your skin, rather than placid humidity, and finally, finally you embrace the ability to see, with your eyes, not that unfamiliar sense, never more thankful for even the dimmest, greyest light.

Elidibus steps from the doorway slowly, all but unreadable as he approaches. He no longer retains his earlier coyness, as you seem to have passed his test; once close enough, however, you recognize that caution replaces his usual confidence, his body language tense and distant. He kisses you softly, a simple, gentle, mortal kiss, completely unlike the one you shared just moments ago in the nothingness. It feels strange, alien, inappropriate, and very awkward; it reminds you the first kiss you ever shared with him, but amplified, like if you were a young child experimenting with the forbidden. It is odd; you should not feel such seclusion from someone you've been so close to for so long.

"I see." Is all he says as he withdraws and guides you to the door.

* * *

To Tonberry:

Thank you very much, I am honored that you enjoy my stories despite not really recognizing the difference between the Ascians.

If I may try to help you out and give you the basics:

Lahabrea - From 2.0 and 3.0; he is known as "difficult" and overwhelmingly arrogant and disagreeable by his peers. Prone to haughty smiles and laughter.

Nabriales - 2.1-2.5: He's a bit more laid back and absolutely informal. He's brash and unpredictable.

Elidibus - Emissary, formal, respectful, and evasive. Very different from the others. He's the one in white.

Igeyorhm - The female, and it's really her only defining trait. She was woefully underutilized and existed basically to be Lahabrea's sidekick in 3.0. I'm so disappointed by her.


	10. Elidibus: Cycle

Summary: _After witnessing the Sahagin Elder's Echo capabilities and the truth of Elidibus' words, the Warrior of Light becomes cautious and curious. Finally giving in, the Warrior approaches the Ascian in secret._

 _The Emissary's expectations are shattered; the Warrior of Light learns to speak and understand the strange language known as Elidibus. Post-2.2, pre-2.3_

Notes: For request _"how it happened;" how the WoL started a relationship with an Ascian_ and prompt _kind, accepting, forgiving WoL, prone to warm smiles._

This is experimental. I am not sure how this ended up or how this will be received because it's a slightly different style, intentionally vague, more formal, and less descriptive. Unfortunately, I had to stray from second person, so I was required to give the Warrior of Light a bit of a personality and I went with one prompt given to me.

 _ **Cycle**_

* * *

Elidibus is a creature of patience.

Seconds, minutes, bells, suns, weeks, moons, years – meaningless. The Spoken races are unchanging, the names of their countries all that differ between generations **.** Fallibility in fear and overconfidence; the same faults, exhibited and reborn over and over again.

All is cyclic, the fertile ground of the Gods dynamic and comforting in its repetition.

He moves; She responds. She wanes; He waxes.

Not even the Gods are impervious to the cycle – and Elidibus is its master.

Curiosity, questions, and answers, provoked by the simplest suggestion. All children experience and wonder and so all children seek and learn. Even those chosen by the Gods must submit to the cycle's laws.

"What I have shown you changes nothing; you have simply learned of it sooner, rather than later."

The Champions of Light seek, but never accept, His one truth. That this Warrior is no different is unsurprising; denial remains the most consistent trait of all Her chosen. Predictability makes them, as in all creatures, manageable, and guidance towards the necessary path requires only the barest of hints.

"You are intentionally difficult, aren't you?" Exasperation, seated deeply within the Warrior's body language, stains the words. It is an emotion Elidibus avoids in negotiation; exasperation leads to hostility and irrationality, dangerous reactions that close off even the most open mind. "You come with the promise of answers, but only offer more questions. Ones you will not answer."

Elidibus acknowledges only the merest tinge of annoyance; Hydaelyn tests Her servants as much as He does His, yet still the Champion expects to be immediately gifted with answers. Habits can be broken; Elidibus will see this one eliminated soon enough.

This Warrior is not entirely insipid; Elidibus judged Her chosen correctly. Parley and discussion are possible; that Her champion chooses not to attack attests to that. The Warrior is far more vivacious and persuadable than any predecessors; they are convenient traits – vulnerable traits that must be used but not corrupted.

Explanation of fundamental concepts is unavoidable, justification is necessary in guidance. "You experience knowledge; all scholars learn, but the more they observe, the more they seek and the less they know. An endless cycle."

The Warrior expresses the slightest frown, barely enough to signal disapproval. "So you will share nothing of relevance."

"I will and, when I do, you will claim I perpetuate more questions." As long as the Warrior continues to search, Elidibus will continue to lead. Eventually Hydaelyn's champion will come upon the truth, believing it their own discovery.

The expected rebuttal, after which Elidibus would have sated the Warrior's curiosity, never comes.

The Warrior of Light only laughs in response, soft and breathy, before it deepens. It is not mocking, but pure laughter born of true amusement. To the ears of a mortal, it may be considered a pleasant sound.

Elidibus is His Emissary; it is a duty to understand and predict mortals, to learn their ways and conform to them. Her champions are never normal mortals, but they share a similar basal demeanor and, with that, there are expectations.

Resentment, anger, annoyance, frustration; these are emotions Elidibus understands, defuses, and deflects.

Laughter is unexpected. Laughter is uncommon. Laughter is unknown. He is not Lahabrea; Elidibus is not prone to amusement at the antics and failures of mortals, laughing at displays of power born of indulgent arrogance.

Such insecurity is unfamiliar; the Light is constant and distant, the Dark chaotic and intimate. Her warriors should embody the purest light, yet this one does not.

The cycle stalls, predictability and certainty gone.

A second is as a minute, a minute is as a bell, and a bell is as a sun; the few moments the Warrior laughs are the longest Elidibus has known. With each instant, as the Warrior becomes more and more breathless, Elidibus feels his control slip.

Face flushed and smiling, the Warrior seemingly calms, frustration washed away, confidence renewed. Any earlier annoyance has faded. "I suppose that's true."

Her child should not be agreeing or trusting his word so easily. "You will ask, regardless." The Warrior must; the cycle will continue.

For a time, the Warrior is silent, considering. When Her chosen finally speaks again, any amusement is gone. "I am not prone to swinging my weapon against unyielding stone. Or crystal, as it were."

Elidibus is not prideful, his pride stems only from reverence, but Elidibus tolerates few failures and even less dissension. As the Warrior of Light rejects him, what little exists of his pride burns; mistakes he often criticizes the others for fall onto him, the cycle crumbling.

"Very well." Elidibus expresses none of his irritation. There will be other opportunities; he will create them if he must.

"Emissary." The Warrior continues with confidence, reading Elidibus as easily as he reads Her children. The Warrior _knows_ ; Elidibus cannot stop his jaw's clench. "Speak all the ceremony you will, of your God and mine, but your actions tell the truth of things.

You rightfully assert that I do not understand the Echo; my use is erratic and dangerous and instinctual. Know the truth; I am not ambitious. I do not know what you believe I think of the Echo or some absurd eternal conflict I've been drawn into, Ascian, but your demonstration with Leviathan solidified my reasoning."

Perhaps more than any prior words or actions, what the Warrior does next alarms Elidibus most. The Champion smiles; in contrast to the firm words, the expression is soft and genuine. There is no condescension, nor is there any of the expected arrogance or satisfaction Elidibus has come to expect from mortals. All that is expressed in the smile is hope and determination.

Control. There is no control. There must be control.

"When you will offer answers, I will ask questions. Emissary, if you truly believe the Echo – the Gift – can end the conflict between our peoples, it is upon you to prove it."

It is all lost.

The cycle has ended.

Elidibus is not a creature of hope, but even he recognizes a new cycle has begun.

* * *

I would be curious to know if anyone was interested in more "how it happened/started" stories in this style (Ascian narration). Nabriales was requested before.


	11. Lahabrea: Fate

Summary: In the depths of the Aetherochemical Research Facility, Lahabrea understands.

Note: For request: _Sweet/Fluffy Lahabrea, WoL, and Thordan scene, at the end of 3.0._

What an extremely challenging request; Lahabrea did not want to work with me and I didn't want to rehash. I hope everyone enjoys this short little fic.

 ** _Fate_**

* * *

With proper alacrity, there is but one inevitability.

It decomposes, bleeding, weak container that it is, remaining energy impossible to grasp. Irrelevant, he will create another. Lahabrea will bring about Her end; Hydaelyn must receive proper recompense.

"Even knowing, you still. . ." He allows his disgust to be known at the Warrior's illogical rejection; the false Goddess is the source of such obstinacy. She compels Her servants into service; under the guise of righteousness, they are coerced into a self-destructive struggle for a cause they do not understand.

The Warrior of Light makes duty of slaying false Gods, but in doing so fails to recognize Her influence is as thorough a slavery as tempering.

The Warrior's words are little above a whisper. "The Gods are cruel." The Blessing grants Her champion fanciful delusion; it is only Hydaelyn who keeps them in opposition. "As are the whims of their servants."

All hostility in Her chosen's demeanor has faded, the only perceived threat eliminated. Lahabrea rejects the arm offered in aid; he needs only his own strength. The Warrior worries for him, drawing fingers softly across his form in a foolish display of mortal intimacy. The touches are sedated, searching futilely for a source of damage.

Lahabrea lifts a hand to meet the Champion's, cloth preventing the union of flesh; this is no whim, but an absolute reality. Mortals decay, their creations fall. Hydaelyn will be eliminated. The Rejoining will occur. They belong together.

Even with Her taint, all remains as it should be.

"One but not the other. Inability and unwillingness to fulfill your responsibilities; even the fabled Warrior of Light is bound by mortal imperfections."

The mortal archbishop intrudes, their reunion disturbed. Her champion pulls away to face the trespasser, familiarity gone, replaced with caution. Lahabrea makes no effort to hide his irritation; his lover's attention stolen from him, Lahabrea's hands clench to fists. The Elezen is not to be here. This is not what was discussed; the Warrior is _his_.

The creature fancies himself charismatic and powerful – convenient fantasies perpetuated to further Lahabrea's goals. He bleats; the explanation of his presence and intentions insignificant. Lahabrea understands his purpose before he proclaims himself 'God-emperor.'

Pathetic. To claim godhood when before a servant of the one true God, believing himself to be above the chaos of mortality, requires unrestrained arrogance.

"You would raise a hand against us?" It is a waste of energy to speak; the harsh, disbelieving laughter Lahabrea bites out is cut short from weakness. There is no disappointment; faith based upon mortal action is fated for betrayal.

"I won't allow it." The Warrior's tone is uncommonly used, but not unfamiliar. Ferocity is not a trait Lahabrea often attributes to the Warrior of Light; the vehemence of the declaration, far from the dull, stoic command of strength his partner is prone to, is only drawn out in his defense.

It is as it should be. Her chosen stays by his side.

"Weakened, tainted by darkness as you are, Warrior, you will never be able to withstand the power of true light."

Lahabrea cannot but laugh again at the absurdity, forcing raspy breaths out between harsh wheezes; the creature that betrays him uses the same self-righteous justification as Hydaelyn's chosen are apt to, claiming they rid the world of chaos and darkness and evil, believing theirs is the path of order and light and goodness. They presume themselves just, even as they continue their path of destruction, never acknowledging the damage they cause.

It is deluded mortal nonsense; no falsified claims of godhood can alter his nature.

"You must leave." The Warrior demands wordlessly, so that only he hears; they remain bonded yet still, eternal and unyielding, capable of shared thoughts.

Lahabrea understands; he should leave them to destroy each other, to let Hydaelyn drain Her strength shielding Her chosen. The Light will implode upon itself.

He refuses to obey. He will not submit; he will not flee; he will not stop. He will not lose this chance to initiate the Rejoining.

They must remain together. As it is intended to be. As it will always be.

"You will atone. Face justice, Ascian." The traitor would not dare-

"Fool, stubborn creature!" The Warrior snaps. True fury overwhelms the both of them, shared, intensity amplified beyond what either could attain singularly. The Warrior's rare, raw emotional display belongs only to him.

Their unifying resonance, unbelievably strong, overwhelming, and determined forces through him.

Light. It is not Her loathsome light the Archbishop uses, but a sterile, pure energy that draws in more than it forces out.

Vivid, overpowering emotions, so many, so frequent and persistent that he defines none, their source impossible to determine. One thought dominates all others:

He _will not_ be unmade.

Pain; enveloping, tearing, piercing, shearing what remains. Dimness so intense it burns. _Fear._

Pulling; tugging; absorption; shrouding blue; encapsulating flow; all is one, time is esoteric.

Lahabea submits to the enervation, comfortable dark surrounding him as he rests within the dominant flow, intermingling.

Dimness turns to haze when the union finalizes; he draws in cool, silken aether that is not his own, obscurity cleared.

Relief and worry, forcing an erratic, turbulent flow through normally placid waves - emotions not intended to be disclosed to him. Shared within the core, all thoughts are as much his as his partner's.

Gentle - too gentle; Lahabrea commands the shared aether, refusing to be pitied - and devoted, not at all like Igeyorhm's appalling amalgamation.

Deeper, deeper, beyond the reach of any Light, they resonate together.

All is as it must be. All is as intended.


	12. Nabriales: Gift

Summary: _AU, An Uninvited Ascian. Because they are together often, Nabriales immediately recognizes when the Warrior of Light loses the Blessing of Light. He keeps the information to himself, putting into play a new plan, one that is impossible to fail. Powerplay and a bit of an intentional public display._

Notes (lots of them):

For request: _Tank Warrior of Light, Uninvited Ascian AU, Opposite of my story "Shroud." Due to the Warrior and Nabriales' close relationship, the Warrior is unable to raise a weapon against Nabriales. Nabriales doesn't share such reservations and the Warrior is inevitably harmed._

Rated A for Ascian; Nabriales is a bit forceful, but there's no non-con here.

The game never explicitly tells you how the WoL and Minfilia get back out of the Rift, so I'm just assuming they went back the way they came or by using the Return spell.

You'll note Nabriales is a bit more descriptive. This is intentional, as he is more casual and informal.

Part of this was influenced very slightly by 12th Chalice's comment in the 60 SMN quest; if you watch the cutscene in your journal, it's within the first 5 lines he says. As such, I'm being self-indulgent again. Someone stop me.

 ** _Gift_**

* * *

The delay is intentional; the Warrior demonstrates no haste in accepting his invitation, doubtless fending off a barrage of the Sharlayan meddler's questions and condemning his earlier interruption.

Let them pry; those who seek truth do not often favor the answers.

The woman blathers behind him, spewing more and more nonsense about how he will never succeed and how the Warrior of Light will stop him and whatever other drivel those prone to playing the hero spout. To have such faith in Her and Her former chosen when deeply within His domain is amusing; at least the prisoner provides him some entertainment while he waits.

Deliberately and sluggishly, the Warrior's presence eventually becomes known. Nabriales silences the woman, obscuring her presence. There is much for her to witness, 'twould be a shame if she interfered before they've begun.

His partner's annoyance is well hidden, a tenseness below the surface invisible to none but the most perceptive. Nabriales remains still as the Warrior approaches, until the former-champion is within a pace. Before he suffers another lecture on his impulsive behavior, he grasps the Warrior's arm, pressing their forms together, turning them both so that the former-champion is pushed against His effigy.

"If this-" Nabriales interrupts the fussing; the Warrior's pleasure is his pleasure. Shallow though mortal affection may be, when he touches his form's lips to the Warrior, the energy he tastes sends shivers through him, demanding he take more. "-Is what you wanted, could you at least have waited until my business was concluded?"

 _No,_ he answers with his body; he has been very, very patient. Now it all ends. Before His Grace, under witness of the false Goddess' representative, they will become one, and then -

Unnecessary clothing interferes; any remaining armor must be eliminated. Nabriales tugs at loose cloth, aiding in its removal so that he may savor bare flesh. Unarmored and unshielded by Light, the former-chosen is vulnerable to his control, shivers and bumps spreading at his aether's touch. With the slightest contact to the Warrior's core, he expands his influence, commanding emotions and desires be known.

The response is instantaneous and familiar, his essence numbing objectivity and rationality. His partner's body falls limp, annoyance and stubbornness finally broken. Vulnerable, submitting to his aether, the Warrior molds to his will; Nabriales pushes yet more, compelling his partner to experience all that he does, so that nothing separates them.

Only through this does Nabriales live; hostless and limited in potential sensation, he will not squander the opportunity to cause and embrace the volatile unpredictability of mortal lust.

Spicy, strong; the Warrior's essence tastes of well-hidden willfulness. Close as they are, he can taste his own essence through his partner's sense, distinctly sour, but just as strong. Defining essence as taste is futile, one simply _is_ , but his lover's habits slip into him, providing words for known feelings.

Together they breathe, erratic and heavy. His fingers bite into mortal flesh as strongly as the Warrior's dig at him. They push themselves from the statue, struggling for control, both sharing Nabriales' refusal to submit. Of one mind, lacking independence, they press into the other, twisting and spiraling until they fall to the ground; all that is felt of the landing is a distant throb, pain overwhelmed by dizzy tingling and hot tremors.

The Warrior's touch is as His in subtle firmness, dominating thoughtlessly; with Nabriales' influence, the tendency is amplified and he finds himself easily below his partner's body. Driven by mortal passion and enhanced by aether, the Warrior tears off his mask and bites his lips, sitting atop his form, hips grinding into him. Just as Nabriales earlier, his partner is progressively more annoyed by shielding robes, limiting access to his aether-formed flesh.

Sour, so sour, spicy and bitter; it is electric, too strong, impossible to maintain, even as they peak, just starting to seek more. There is no flow, there is no consistency, there is only contrasting chaos. It is simultaneously revolting and magnetic, requiring withdrawal; it is impossible to withstand prolonged closeness to the other's core without complete merging. Would that they could continue forever, treading endlessly, deeper and deeper in the abyss, but in no world is such a thing be possible.

They simultaneously withdraw, slowly, painfully, the Warrior's physical lust unfulfilled, but satiated in every other way. He pushes his partner's will away, rejecting lingering thoughts of affection and desire, lest he be distracted. It is time; Lord Zodiark will no longer be kept from His prize.

Nabriales releases the spell keeping Her representative obscure and lets her drop to the floor.

He pushes himself from the ground. Spreading himself thinly through his partner has tired him, but the former-chosen is even more affected, body damp with sweat, head fogged. All is clear when together; all is muddled when apart. Thoroughly distracted, it takes the Warrior a moment to hear the screeching, hoarse cry of the intruder, repeating the same demand over and over, 'What are you doing?' she cries, as if their engagement 'twasn't immediately clear.

The Warrior's comprehension is delayed, but visible; Nabriales recognizes the thoughts that form, even unable to read them, as the narrative pieces together. The former-chosen turns to face him, condemning his betrayal, refreshingly blatant emotions covering tired features. Nabriales engorges himself on them.

This is how it must be.

"What have you done?!" Again with the obvious queries; Nabriales shrugs off the Warrior's hostility.

"You needn't worry. I've not harmed her." He motions to the woman, who still remains on the floor, clutching the staff to her breast. "I thought perhaps you could speak some sense into her."

Nabriales rarely receives such looks of loathing; the prisoner reminds him very much of a rat, nipping at his toes in a bid for survival. The rat knows it can be destroyed at any moment and only by the whims of the greater being is its continued existence secured.

Nabriales disregards her, drawing closer to the more passive Warrior. He is not pushed away, but ignored, his partner's attention completely on Her representative. This was his will, he reinforces. The Warrior's attentions must be drawn from him, no matter how distasteful the temporary loss may be.

Refusing to heed the logic, Nabriales moves his hand up, stroking his partner's face and running it through hair that is still clumped from sweat, encircling the Warrior's waist from behind. The woman looks ill at the display and he does not bother to hide his satisfaction.

"What is going on?" His partner questions the prisoner, showing no reaction to Nabriales' touch.

"I should be asking you the same!" An indignant response to the being she earlier advocated as her savior. After seeing them together, it is doubtful the rat wants to share any information with the former-champion. The Warrior's body stiffens, distressed at the rejection; Nabriales judged correctly, they were close. Her representative seems as disapproving of their relationship as Elidibus would be.

Nabriales cares as little for Elidibus' judgement as he does the woman's.

If the prisoner will not answer, Nabriales will. "She refuses to relinquish the staff. When she does, she is free to leave." Though he can not see his partner's face from his position, he can almost feel displeasure radiating into him. "I've no interest in your companion."

The dam bursts, the Warrior's withheld emotions flood through vulnerable fields. He is pushed away; the former-champion confronts him, confused, angry, and hurt. "All this for _a staff_?"

Finally - they have dawdled long enough, pleasant and necessary distractions though they were.

The Warrior turns back to the woman; the anger exhibited seems to satisfy the intruder, drawing the former-champion back into her trust. The Warrior questions; the woman answers, telling a story no different from his.

Finally deciding on the appropriate action, in a show of uncharacteristic and utter arrogance, the former-Chosen of Light stands before him, weaponless, unclothed, and unarmored, trusting that Nabriales will not attack – Nabriales approves.

"Minfilia, you must flee." The woman's better sense finally seems to get the better of her and she listens to the Warrior's command. The prisoner pushes herself from the floor, still clutching the staff as if it is more important than her life. She's correct.

"I don't think so." The rat will leave only when he wills it; she is to witness the rebirth.

A simple spell and Nabriales is behind Her representative, close enough that he can feel her heat and the tenseness of her body. The rat shivers slightly as he runs a finger down her face, as he did the Warrior's; she will remain under his control.

Muscles clenching, she forces him aside, fleeing as quickly as she can.

The woman is not fast, he must only incapacitate her. She makes no attempt to dart about or move unpredictably, it take no effort to see her goal. It requires no more than the weakest attack.

A cry, not the one expected, followed by the thud of a form falling to the floor and a pained moan.

 _No._

Thud. Thud. _Thud._ The sounds repeats from within as his lover struggles on the floor, trying to control and minimize the damage.

He was to weaken the Warrior, to maim, not kill. The Warrior was to defend, to avoid, not take an attack unprotected to guard another.

"Oh, Hydaelyn." The rat has the audacity to speak.

"Do not dare invoke Her name!" He allows his rage to spill. "You have brought this upon your 'Warrior of Light'. If you had but obeyed, this would never have happened!"

The woman shakes out of terror and distress. She should fear; Elidibus would dare not stop him now.

"Go." The Warrior's voice gurgles, lungs pierced. _This is not how it was to be._

The rat flees; he does not stop her.

Unknown, unwanted, _soft_ emotions embrace his chest as tightly as pain does his lover's, his aether erratic and barely contained. Nabriales knew this plan would result only in the Warrior's temporary estrangement, such reactions are expected, but the agony, the coughs and gasps and blood coursing down bare flesh, flesh he had only earlier touched and merged with, so that it was own, was never planned.

He rejects it all. It is all for Him; His goal must be the Warrior's goal, then all will be well. The Warrior is Gifted; death is not a setback.

The pressure sets itself deeper into the chasm, expanding the fracture, refusing to be downed by logic.

Alone together, Nabriales closes the distance. He must go through with the plan, it is the only way to correct his mistake.

There is no visible wound, but sticky red streaks the Warrior's hands and chest, leaking through closed fingers at each cough.

"Leave it be." His partner's voice is heavy, a mixture of weak demand and pleading; barely able to breathe, the Warrior absurdly fusses over the staff.

Only for his lover does he kneel. There is no affectionate touch, an impenetrable wall separating them, but there does not need to be. "If I was going to follow, I would have." He places a hand firmly on the Warrior's chest, regardless of will.

Seemingly believing his attention diverted from his goal, the Warrior ignores Nabriales and attempts to stand, a fool, stubborn motion that ends only in failure. On any other creature it would be mocked, but sweet disdain is overwritten by bitter satisfaction.

In a sense, it has been perfect, everything flawless. Unpredictability works in his favor and he need not battle. For many moons he has pushed, preparing, guiding Her former-chosen to His hand; the Warrior's body is offered almost at will. Never before has victory tasted so sour.

He pushes aside the weak sounds his lover makes, the _thud,_ and forces the weakened Warrior to the ground. It is so easy, requiring a simple resonance; they were closer in their union moments earlier. Elidibus was correct; the Warrior's Gift is overwhelming, he need not even pull. In this place, He is strong and does not need aid in taking His offering.

Something foreign struggles, minimal, attached to a greater power, no doubt the last vestiges of Her control, as it has no influence over the Gift. It attempts to reject Him - not from the Warrior, but from itself. This thing will not interfere, he will not allow it to stop the uplifting. Nabriales pours energy into the space surrounding invader, eliminating the connection to his lover.

The entity withdraws, retreating almost willingly, the final barrier removed. Weakened though He is, His Grace's protection is far more potent than anything Hydaelyn is capable of.

Placidity and silence are all that remain, thick, gurgling rasps replaced by the deep breaths of what appears to be sleep, but the Warrior does not rest. Nabriales places a hand over the former-chosen's chest, feeling its rise and fall and the knit of core aether humming, restoring the damage he caused. It is a rare delight; mortal forms are drab, dull things, but the inverted flow of the Warrior's aether, previously unseen, electric below his hand, is the most beautiful thing he remembers experiencing.

Nabriales remains true, unmoving until it ends and his partner stirs, hands clenching, breaths quickening. His contact is oppressive, causing overwhelming dizziness in those unused to it.

"A dream. . ." The words are slurred, not intended to be spoken. He holds his tongue, but desires nothing more than to deny the Warrior the thought; it was not a dream, it will never be a dream. Belatedly noticing Nabriales' presence, the Warrior continues, dazed and confused. "You're still here?"

"I told you I would not leave." Nabriales will never leave.

The former-Warrior knows something is off, forehead and lips creased in a frown, jaw set, but says nothing. His partner is prone to the annoying tendency of withholding troubles, defaulting into reminiscent silence, bitterness building slowly over time until the shielding wall breaks.

"Your illness will pass in time." Nabriales pushes himself from his knee, continuing to speak, knowing that his lover will not.

"Minfilia – I'm going back." Exhausted and unsure, the former-Warrior's tone still bites in accusation. The anger is expected and will undoubtedly become more severe once his intentions and plans are revealed.

The first phase is finished; he makes no effort to stop his lover's departure. Soon, the staff will be His and he will no longer be required to subject himself to the fickle whims of the others.

In time, Nabriales is certain all will be well.


	13. Igeyorhm, Lahabrea: Antithesis, Part 1

Summary: _When confronting the Warrior of Light in the Limitless Blue, Igeyorhm blunders. AU; a chronological series in five parts, detailing the Warrior of Light's fall from servant, to Lesser Ascian, to Scion of Darkness. WoL/Igeyorhm, Igeyorhm/Lahabrea, WoL/Igeyorhm/Lahabrea._

Uses a Female Warrior of Light.

Note: The first 3 parts of a 5-part story. Each part can be considered a single one-shot, with a rather large gap in the time between events. The MSQ is still happening in the background.

Based around the Summoner questline's reveals about the traits of lesser Ascians, the ones with the black masks. If you are unfamiliar with these traits, I outline them throughout the story. I also have a summary of the important ones at the very very end of this chapter.

Be aware that this fiction earns its Mature rating. This part contains femslash. The next part will contain a F/F/M threesome.

 _ **The Martyr**_

* * *

Blue.

It is not the pale, warm blue of Hydaelyn, but a deep, dark, endless blue, only a shade above black. Through the depths you fall, blue surrounding and enveloping you, deeper, deeper, slowly sinking into nothing. It is a sea; force restricts your breast and lightens your head, crushing you underneath invisible weight. You need to breathe, but your instincts refuse to allow inhalation, as if you truly plummet through the waters of the abyss.

Pressure, hard, tight, overwhelming breaks through your chest, forcing out the remaining air in your lungs. You breathe in, but there is no air, there is nothing but blue void. Lungs unfulfilled, your body burns, cold and numb, commanding you to provide it sustenance, but there is nothing to give.

Deeper and deeper you fall, pressure, pain, heat, and the endless, serene depths make you want to scream, but you are incapable of sound.

Everything fades, blue blurring. You land, but there is nothing to rest on, your body hitting an invisible sea floor. The foggy, dark soil around you is disturbed by your touch, rising up and up, swirling and tainting the clear blue. The blue darkens, thickens, and all that remains of your sight and comprehension disappears, swallowed wholly into black nothingness.

You awaken slowly, muddled blue replaced by the clear black and grey moonlight that fills your Inn room in Gridania.

You run your hands over your body, dazed. Your rapid breaths continue, starved body believing itself deprived of oxygen, but nothing is wrong. The pressure on your chest remains, as the aftereffects of dreams often do, but your room is silent, the air is still, and your rest has not been disturbed.

There is something wrong. The pain that has plagued you for the last suns is gone. It is a sorry state of affairs when you have come to expect the heavy ache that stiffened your movement and slowed your reactions, but the timing of your liberation cannot be coincidental. The sense of wrongness remains at the back of your mind, present, but impossible to describe. You recognize its presence, like the emptiness within when Midgardsormr cut you from Hydaelyn, yet you can discern nothing solid that has changed.

You push yourself off the bed, completely awake, intense pressure fading. Sleep is elusive now, there is no point in trying. You'll get no more this night. You strip off sweat-soaked nightclothes and replace them with attire casual enough that you'll feel the chill bite of the Shroud's night air.

The Inn's hallways are blessedly empty, though stray voices echo from the common room. Fending off the excited queries of novice adventurers does not sound particularly appealing and you hope that they will not recognize you from the shadows. Too much subtlety will get you noticed as easily as too little; you keep your head high and move normally, so that you do not draw attention to yourself. The few stray adventurers do not even bother to look at you - novice indeed – their discussion uninterrupted by your passage.

You wander aimlessly through the silent streets. You seek only to move, somewhere, anywhere, a nagging, persistent itch that demands you find _something_. It's as if you lost an item you were holding a moment earlier; the back of your mind _knows_ where you should go to search, but you've forgotten and you'll recognize your destination when you see it.

The sense of need is only amplified by the Shroud's overwhelming aether. You are not prone to aether sickness - Hydaelyn help you if you were, you wouldn't have made it nearly so far - but the constantly flowing thickness over your flesh is distracting and distantly painful. It amplifies your senses, so that each night bird's call pierces through your head and every insect's screech sets you on edge as thoroughly as the clank of armored footfalls from behind might. For the first time, you understand why a newcomer might be uncomfortable in this place.

From New Gridania to Old, the aether becomes thicker still. There are fewer guards and no citizens in the empty fields or walking the paths. Your pace quickens as the desire becomes more persistent, as if you're late for an appointment and must immediately find what you're searching for.

The nagging finally ceases when you reach Apkallu Falls, the empty, peaceful cove perhaps even more beautiful and relaxing at night than during the day. The loud, constantly flowing of the water pushes down the sound of shrieking insects, the Falls providing you with the first taste of relaxation since you awakened.

Your chest heaves from your breaths; you did not realize how quickly you were moving in the strange desperation. Only now that you've reached your goal do you recognize how unnatural the force willing you to find it was. Something must have -

"So falls the first Scion, a tale older than time itself." The voice rings just in front of you. The unsurprising form of an Ascian manifests itself, levitating just above the waters.

"You're. . ." Facing the strange woman, you hesitate. She is hostless, but you're unsure how you know or recognize it, as you've only encountered her once before. You do not even know her name, but you feel as if you'd recognize her presence from any distance, in any mass of bodies. It is intensely uncomfortable, as if you know her better than you know yourself.

The Ascian does not continue or respond, but stares at you in silence. You return her stare, the woman's presence becoming more prominent as each moment passes. You feel smaller and smaller, she larger and larger.

"I am Igeyorhm." The Ascian finally announces, as if she's made her decision. The considerations that caused her hesitation are beyond you. "To you I am 'Master.'"

Arrogance seems to be a universal trait among Ascians, perhaps rightfully so, but Igeyorhm's declaration is shocking and well beyond what is expected from the others you've encountered. To pronounce herself as your ally would be insanity, but to claim she is your 'master' is utterly absurd; were the situation any different, you might have laughed, but to your bafflement, the Ascian remains neutral, entirely serious.

"You're mad." You spurn her.

You know immediately that she disapproves of your criticism; without any external manipulation of aether, she penetrates the depths of your mind, so intensely that she can almost control you **.** You do not know how to expel her and the vulnerability you feel at her presence is far more severe than when she held your body at her mocking mercy before Thordan. The Ascian could tear you apart from the inside if she willed it, without effort.

And yet, she causes no pain, nor does she directly manipulate you. Instinctual revulsion and the need to reaffirm your independence and internal security are overwhelming, but the Ascian does not harm you. It is your weakness and inability to remove the threat that drive you to the ground before the lapping, cool water, like a small child curling up to escape from a nightmare.

"I desire our situation no more than you do, but His laws are absolute" Her tone remains clear and neutral, unaffected by your struggle against her.

The woman's intrusion is nothing like the ceaseless pressure from your nightmare. You can breathe, you can speak, you can move, but it's a challenge to think or form words. "I don't understand." You rasp, continuing to do anything you can to push her from you, lashing out in every way you know how, with aether and without, like an infant futilely struggling against its parent in attempt to continue playing. The Ascian pushes back, denying you, and you feel the bile rise in your throat from the depths of her invasion. "What is it that you want?"

At your question, the woman abruptly halts, withdrawing entirely.

Vulnerability alleviated, you lift yourself to your knees, looking at the Ascian in time to see her lips tighten. Igeyorhm's emotions are impossible to discern behind the mask, in the neutral, Hyur-like form she wears, but she expresses them easily in her tone, words breathy and resigned. She is not annoyed at your ignorance, but nor is she entirely pleased.

"Upon your uplifting, you became my responsibility." The Ascian elaborates, as if it explains everything.

You do not know what an 'uplifting' is, none of the Ascians have spoken of it before, but you mislike its implications. Igeyorhm recognizes your confusion from the frown that crosses your features. Infinitely patient, the woman continues as if explaining proper and improper behavior to a toddler who should know better.

"In my haste, I was careless. Hydaelyn is fragile; my intention was to debilitate Her over time, but you foolishly took my spell upon yourself." Despite the implied irritation, Igeyorhm's tone is not disapproving. "An unprotected mortal form, no matter how tempered, cannot withstand our magic for long. Even the most resilient succumb eventually."

The Ascian seems to be complimenting you, in her own way. She has a roundabout way of speaking and you are unsure if she is intentionally vague or mistakenly believes herself blunt, but it seems that she has admitted to being the cause of your recent discomfort - until it ceased upon your awakening this evening.

You refuse to allow your thoughts to continue further down that path; the lack of pain and its implications lead to only the darkest depths.

But nag at you they do, as persistent and unrestrained as that call that summoned you to this place. The whispers force themselves to the forefront of your traitorous mind, regardless of your will.

You could not withstand the Ascian's curse with your weakened Blessing.

You no longer feel the pain of it because you were 'uplifted.'

You're alive and unharmed and – there is something wrong, missing –

You protected Hydaelyn, but you _died._

"I am whole." You refuse quickly, denial coursing through you. Everything Igeyorhm implies becomes clear and you reject it all.

Lacking condescension, Igeyorhm tolerantly responds, seemingly well-versed in managing stubbornness. **"** There are many things you do not yet understand, that you must learn and unlearn; what experience does not teach you, I will." The Ascian is taking what she believes to be her responsibility seriously and seeks to guide you.

"I won't -" You open your mouth, but the refusal does not form on your tongue.

What hinders your speech is different from Igeyorhm's earlier invasion. It is a subtle compulsion, one that guides you to not wish to speak at all.

To your abject horror, you understand.

In your service to Hydaelyn, Her will was imposed upon you with equal subtlety. Though capable of rejecting it, there is a gentle compulsion to serve, a sense that it was completely illogical to do otherwise. If you overcame that and acted with apathy to her desires, you doubtless would have lost Her favor and the Blessing.

No longer is it Her will you must fulfill. The compulsion manifests itself similarly, subtle, gentle, and by a far greater power than Igeyorhm's. Paired with the force the woman exerted over you, it becomes immediately and immensely clear that there is no alternative: you must serve and abide by the laws and rules of an incomprehensible master.

You feel ill. You'd sooner die than realize the desires of a dark God of chaos.

Yet a permanent death driven by fear solves nothing. Hiding and running are pointless; you're a creature of action, not one to stand to the side when change is imminent. You cannot be a martyr; there are too many others who need you to live – others who have given their lives or their freedom so that you may create a better future.

You must accept this curse. You must bear the burden for your companions, living and fallen, so that the damage is minimized, to help their dreams of peace become reality. There must be a way to do so.

What horrifies you most is not your solid, delayed nod to Igeyorhm, acknowledging your submission to her will, but the understanding that the rationalization that led you to do so may not be entirely your own, logic silently manipulated by the will of the God you seek to impede.

"To gain understanding, to experience your new position, to right the wrongs you have committed against our cause, you will whisper for me." She continues as if your hesitation did not occur, though she undoubtedly recognizes your struggle. "You previously used your influence to soothe and calm, but no longer will you interfere. Whisper to their fears; to their instability. Build on their insecurities and prejudice; there must be uprising, there must terror. Ishgard must be absorbed by its faith."

Her directive is terrifying in a way that facing down the most dangerous foes can never be. It is against everything you once stood for. You've been an impenetrable beacon of hope to the people, but now the beacon's light must dim and intentionally mislead. As a symbol of stability, any fear and uncertainty you show will bring forth nothing but chaos. The woman who is your master is a formidable creature indeed; she recognizes the flaws of mortal dependence far too thoroughly for your comfort.

However, it is a flexible request, a command you can work with and mold in a way that will cause the least harm. If she wishes the people of Ishgard to be faithful, you will see to it that they are more faithful in the Fury than they have ever been. The other steps will be used sparingly, if at all.

It is curious; Halone is unlikely to be summoned, so the amplification of the Ishgardian faith is a strange role to place you in. You must consider the matter in the future, but for now you've other, more pressing queries, such as the limits placed on your freedom.

"You're not worried that I'll confide in my companions or allow them to interfere?" It is unnecessary for Igeyorhm to know, but you've no intention of having any discussion about your death; the curse of the Echo is impossible to put into words.

"No; they are no longer your companions. The fetters that bind master and servant prevent you from acting in away that hinders our purpose, as you've experienced." Her answer is vague and you are certain there is a way around the rule she is not telling you. Elidibus approached the Scions in peace; though the Emissary serves a greater master, you assume he is bound by the same rules.

It seems plausible that Igeyorhm wishes for you to discover how to manipulate the rule for yourself, by requiring that you twist your logic and thoughts, justifying your actions. You accept her challenge.

"Perform your role well and you may continue your games with the mortals if it pleases you, but you must do nothing to endanger your host – its flesh is fragile and bound to this plane only by your essence. That form has prominence; I would not have you reveal your true nature so quickly."

The statement is disgusting and demented; she casually speaks of _your body_ and how is to be used and discarded. Repulsion prevents you from forming a reply, even if you knew what to say.

"Do you understand my expectations? _His_ expectations?" In emphasis, Igeyorhm invades you again, but differently, more distantly, with cool, deep, icy aether, like you have been dropped into a frigid river in Coerthas. It does not wipe away the revulsion that fills you, but distracts you from it.

With the unspoken threat, Igeyorhm secures her position of strength. No matter how much you struggle, you are her inferior, her servant.

"I do." It is sobering to feel so powerless.

At your concession, Igeyorhm relinquishes her control. The harsh aether immediately softens, rigid ice replaced by the cooling, gentle flakes of snow in the wind. The residue of her presence somehow warms you as much as it cools, alarmingly pleasant.

"Before you leave for your duty, whisperer, I've one more lesson." She speaks offhandedly; Igeyorhm's mind is already elsewhere, but her responsibility to you bids her to remain. "The aetheryte mortals manipulate will no longer respond to you. To travel, withdraw into yourself."

It has quickly become apparent that what you and Igeyorhm consider "teaching" and "lessons" are very different things; you begin to suspect that she is intentionally difficult, so that you must embrace your condition and experiment.

"Go now, Ishgard awaits." She commands silently as she fades into the darkness, orders branded into you, forming in your thoughts from a will distinctly not your own.

Alone in the night, released from Igeyorhm judging, controlling presence, you falter. Standing becomes difficult, despite the energy that pours through you, and your breaths are heavy and erratic; you wonder if you even need to breathe, or if you simply act out your emotions in a familiar way, for self-comfort.

Your return to the Inn is almost unconscious. Time is blurred and dulled; the sounds of the wildlife that earlier distracted you are numbed and easily ignored, your senses focused inward. Gridania's night remains as peaceful as ever; even the novices in the common room have retired for the evening and no one interferes with your passage.

Tataru's presence in the hallway outside your room is all that rouses you from the overbearing haze. The Lalafell is up far too late into the night; you do not know how to respond to her abundant energy, but you make an effort to try.

"Are you well?" Tataru's worry is genuine. She sees the best in all people; if the woman inquires on your wellness, you must truly look abysmal.

No, no you're not well. You're far from well, but the words you wish to speak do not form when you look to her. Standing closely, blocking the moonlight from the window, your shadow should cloak the Lalafell, but she remains as illuminated as when you first entered, the final, devastating confirmation of the fate you've tried to reject.

Tataru does not notice.

"I couldn't sleep." It is not a lie, but it might well be one. You force a weak smile onto your lips, one that does not reach your eyes.

If the woman recognizes the feeble, failure of an attempt at concealing your worries, she ignores it, for your sake. "Of course, I'm excited too, but you don't want to greet Y'shtola with a yawn on your lips. So go back to your room!"

A truer smile forms now, a tired expression that strains your muscles. For Tataru, nothing has changed. You would have it remain that way.

You press your eyes closed in silent apology. "There's been an emergency." Twisting the truth around the sweet Lalafell is challenging; it pierces the vulnerable armor surrounding your heart. "I must return to the Foundation tonight. Please give Y'shtola my best; you know how to reach me."

This is for the good of all, you tell yourself, living and dead, mortal and immortal, Eorzea and Hydaelyn. For them, you will bear these lies, this duty - this existence.

You gently push past Tataru and into your room, ignoring her confused outcry, locking the door behind you.

 ** _Abyssal Celebrant_**

* * *

It is a dreamless sleep, if the state can be considered sleep at all.

You are capable of some form of serene rest, a numbing and distracting respite of nothingness that draws you from the realm of mortals and into yourself, away from the laws that require your action, troubling thoughts, appalling actions, and the smothering force of your aether digging into your broken flesh.

It is too early to know if this void-like sleep, and the comfort you derive from it, is a lasting phenomenon or if it occurs because you recently ended up in this state and must adjust to being restricted by a material form rather than existing solely within one, but you intend to continue using it, the blissful silence a welcome reprieve from the world of chaos that continually besieges you.

You dream in a dreamless existence, a dream that is not a dream. Voices that are not mortal, heard without the ears of your body, whisper from within, a dull, muted echo that slithers through your mind. Foreign thoughts inject themselves into you consciousness, forming more from concepts than words; you've come to recognize the manner of speech as characteristic of communication between the bonded, as when Igeyorhm speaks to you, master and servant.

The sounds interrupting your sleep are more of a curiosity than an annoyance, as are many things in your changed state, and you attempt to draw closer, actively manipulating the void rather than allowing it to passively and heavily build around you. Even as you draw close to the source of the interruption, the meaning of the words remains out of your range of comprehension, obscured behind what seems to be a thick, infinitely tall, hazy wall that refuses to allow any entry or exit.

Driven by curiosity, you push at the barrier. What you are attempting is dangerous, but you are certain the voices have some connection to you, else you would not have been able to hear them when withdrawn into your most private, secluded state, one that is otherwise impossible to interfere with.

Alarmingly, the fog parts almost willingly, not just accepting your presence, but assimilating it. The aether- it's Igeyorhm, you recognize her now that the haze has cleared - draws around you, easing into any cracks and entombing you more effectively than the Lord of Crags. She fills the gaps within you as you simultaneously fill the gaps within her, flowing opposite and equal, unified and constant, any natural erraticism leveled off, as if the troughs between waves have filled and the pounding on the beach is constant and enduring, relentless.

The balance is abnormal and should not be possible at all; you are connected to Igeyorhm, but not _this_ connected.

Focused as you are on your master, you only belatedly recognize the second power, more distant, outside, not a part of Igeyorhm. It's a light pressure, like a gentle drizzle, barely pressing into the shared essence, stroking teasingly, like a fingernail drawn over bare thighs. The touch is warm but far from sensitive; it teases only to expose and take advantage of a moment of weakness.

You definitely should not be feeling this. You did not even know it was possible to partake in such intimacy any longer. If you had a physical form, you'd be blushing at the inappropriate intrusion.

The flustered emotions are finally strong enough to alert Igeyorhm to your presence, but neither of you are strong enough to break the connection between you and interrupt equilibrium. The external force continues its touch, smothering over both you and Igeyorhm, each burning caress melting you as much as her, shared and amplified.

"Lahabrea, stop. My servant. . .?" Igeyorhm's words, no longer obscured by the barrier, are abrupt as she assesses the situation. She does not speak in the unfettered tone you are familiar with, but uncharacteristically softly, emotions tainted by both your presence and contact with of the presence you now recognize as Lahabrea.

Lahabrea pauses, but his foreign touch does not withdraw. A moment of consideration is all it takes for him to begin anew, but not with the same teasing, playful strokes. He probes in search of the intruder; though you certainly have no interest in speaking to Lahabrea, you know of no method of avoidance while within in this merging with Igyeorhm and can do nothing but allow his presence to wash over you, distinguishing servant from master.

"What is yours is mine." He finally speaks, lacking hostility even as he declares his intent to subjugate you. With only that simple warning, Lahabrea's game progresses, using a different touch before. He forces himself between the tiniest cracks that differentiate you and Igeyorhm, a piercing hard insertion, seemingly intent on creating a wedge so that you are more easily influenced. Somehow able to distinguish between fused essences, Lahabrea focuses entirely on you, his presence an irremovable heavy, smothering blanket covering you during midday in Southern Thanalan.

Lahabrea's manipulation is foreign and, compared to Igeyorhm's, distant and external. An assault from the outside is defensible, so long as your master does not aid or interfere, but even buffered by Igeyorhm's presence, Lahabrea is overwhelming, drawing from power far older and more developed than you. All that stops you from being at his utter mercy is his inability to bend your mind from within.

Facing Lahabrea's relentless force of will, you understand how fortunate you are that it is Igeyorhm who is your master; you could have just as easily been bound under Lahabrea, standing beside his many servants, had fate willed it and you encountered him in the Limitless Blue. You would doubtless be a prize for the male, a victory over the loathed Warrior of Light, reminding you of what was lost at any opportunity.

You push as hard against him as he pushes against you, struggling until the connection between you and Igeyorhm finally strains, ripping apart; neutral as she remains, your bond to her was all that kept you afloat in a turbulent sea. So close to victory, Lahabrea strikes, imposing his influence upon you, so that he can share control over Igeyorhm's sole servant.

You submitted only to Igeyorhm when you changed; you will not submit again.

No matter how willful you may be, there is nothing you can do but flee. All that connects you to Lahabrea is your presence within Igeyorhm; before he is able to overwhelm you, you hastily draw away from Igeyorhm, through that hazy, foggy barrier and back into the safety of your body, where Lahabrea cannot touch or break you.

You open your eyes, alert but calm; the Inn room is just as peaceful as when you relaxed and entered your sleep-like state.

You push yourself up, breathing in the brisk air of the early morning, sky still black and chill still pleasantly harsh in your lungs. The cold on your flesh is distant, body insulated by your aether; though it would be taxing, you could walk through the Highlands in the nude and not so much as break out in goosepimples, had you the desire to. Such is the benefit of your body being a walking corpse, animated and whole only through your presence within.

You barely react to the morbid reality any longer; it is an utter, disdainful truth learned through experience within the first week of changing.

You clothe yourself with agonizing lethargy, preparing for the off chance that Lahabrea will approach you in attempt to finish what he started. You would sooner deal with Lahabrea in the safety of your room than a public place and so wait you do, until well after the sun's light is visible through your closed window shades. The male never comes, leaving you to your business as if the encounter never occurred.

There is no point in waiting around any longer, you are impatient, filled to the brim with energy, and lounging about worrying when you could be acting is unlike you. Without any more delays, you leave the Inn, prepared for your distasteful duty.

Every sun it is the same dance, the only changes are in your partner. A cautious attempt at consolation, eyes closed, filled with remorse and hesitation, a long, pained breath emphasizing slow and guarded words, emotions universally understood by all who witness them. Without fail you perform this gentle waltz, practiced until its choreography is invisible and all meaningful speech occurs without words. Any words you happen to speak exist only to supplement your goals.

You would like to believe that you are not past remorse, regardless of how adept you've become at your role, but if nothing else you are efficient. You know not to let emotions interfere, just as you cannot stop to consider every soldier or brigand who once stood before you, struck down for impeding your goal.

"The Fury will protect us." You speak quietly to a fearful young woman, barely out of puberty. Her beauty is marred by the Brume's grime, hair unwashed and matted, clothed in nothing but a thick burlap sack. Even impoverished, Ishgardians are cautious creatures, prone to xenophobia; you must work with them on individual bases, treating each person as if they are more important than all others.

Your duty should be simple, building the influence of a religion that the public has lost faith in, but often reality does not follow 'woulds' and 'shoulds.' The people are wary of you; they see the Warrior of Light, the one who aided Aymeric in exposing the Holy See as the fraud it was. Though many are willing to believe your words, you appear inconsistent, frequently contradicting earlier beliefs and denouncing revelations you earlier supported. You draw not only hesitation and unwillingness to trust, but excess caution, as if you are incapable of keeping to your word.

Challenging the nature of mortal trust as you are, it is amazing that you remain so successful.

"You didn't strike me as a follower of the Faith." Hilda's voice, loud and confident, accented heavily through her upbringing, calls from the distance. The young girl you were speaking with departs quickly, seemingly fearful of your companion. It is an odd reaction from the child, one that worries you.

"These are trying times. For your goal, this instability may be beneficial, a sign of change. For the vulnerable, it helps to have a strong force to lean upon." It is unlike you to be so grandiloquent; you suppose Chalice's claim was true - the traits of the master influence the traits of the servant.

"Nor did you strike me as the type to openly express your insecurities." The woman stands in front of you, crossing her arms over her chest, her mouth set in a deep frown. She continues, her voice saturated in feigned sweetness. "The oddest thing happened last night. A little bird sang a revealing song to me."

Your breath catches; you hesitate, mind working rapidly in attempt to discern her meaning.

There is only one person who knows. Chalice, it must have been that fool Chalice. You warned him not to toy with Hilda; she is far too willful to control and, as someone you respect, you did not wish to see her involved. To Chalice, Hilda's desire for liberation and equality – and her ability to make that dream become reality by her own hands – makes her ideal for furthering the chaos and instability in Ishgard. It also directly undermines your purpose of strengthening the remains of the Holy See.

"And you trust this bird?" You worry for her; Chalice is the last person Hilda should believe.

Your orders have come into conflict with Lahabrea's servant in the past; where Igeyorhm commands you rebuild Ishgard's faith, Chalice has been assigned a role that is almost entirely opposite. While your duties are intended to be complimentary, he is to spread of fear and paranoia, which corrals the citizens deeper into their faith, Chalice is impatient and easily distracted, often forgetting the purpose he was assigned in attempt to more thoroughly sow chaos for his master.

"Only after witnessing the truth." Hilda drops the pretense of kindness, her tone rigid but brittle, body language disgusted and hostile. "You are cold, Warrior of Light. Your touch is gentle, your voice soft, but you are harsher than the Highlands. I suppose trusting you my own mistake; regardless of your history and capabilities, only the most apathetic foreigner could charm the nobility and commons both as quickly as you did, without blinking an eye at their injustices."

Her passionate condemnation ends in frustration and silence; in a rare show of emotion, Hilda's eyes tear, more out of regret and bitterness than sadness. You know that anything you say will add to the severity of her beliefs, denial or acknowledgement; it is best to let her immediately exhaust her anger, so that productive discussion is possible later, when she calms.

It pains you to have a comrade know about your manipulations. Worse still, you know the strategy Chalice employs; like you, he appeals to previously-held insecurities, building paranoia. Without the thoughts already budding within her, Hilda would not have succumbed to Chalice's temptation. You did not expect the other woman to harbor such negative thoughts about your presence in Ishgard; the revelation hurts.

"Don't you have anything to say for yourself?" Hilda's tone precariously balances between mere annoyance at your stoic response and infuriated desperation, seeking justification for her beliefs.

"Your mind seems to be made up." There is nothing you can do for now; even if you can no longer protect her, you can still warn her and trust in her ability to make rational decisions. "Be wary of your little bird, Hilda, he is prone to biting when displeased."

You turn from Hilda, as you've turned from everyone. You will continue to struggle for your friends to the best of your abilities, but it is beneficial to them all that you keep your distance. Only the Scions remain by your side now and, if Y'shtola continues her queries on the flow of your aether and Alphinaud presses for explanations of your constant delays, you may need to turn from them, as well.

Though it hurts, you've no time for worry; Chalice is impatient and plays a dangerous game, precariously skirting a cliff face, a small gust of wind ready to blow him aside. If Hilda acts brashly, she will undo everything you've worked for, intentionally drawing the trust of the commons from you.

Chalice seems to be intentionally hindering you. It is one thing to meddle, it is another entirely to purposely prevent an ally from fulfilling their responsibilities, hindering both Lahabrea's and your master's plans at once – and yours, as well. Chalice must be acting on his own and you will not tolerate it.

There's only one way to stop Chalice short of outright confronting him. It is not something you do lightly, but for Hilda – for any of your companions - you will accept the risk.

You paste a smile on your face and offer everyone you recognize a pleasant greeting as you push through the crowded streets to return to your room. You're erratic, jumpy and writhing inside the body you call home, fearful and nervous.

Locking the door behind you, you passively stand, attempting to moderate your emotions before you begin. Theoretically, calling Lahabrea should be no different than summoning Igeyorhm, coming into direct contact and temporarily imprinting your desire into her, leaving a trail to your location. After your unfortunate, firsthand experience with Lahabrea, his aether remains almost burned into you. Locating him will not be difficult; your apprehension rises more from Lahabrea's reaction to you than the method used in contacting him.

There is nothing to question; no matter how unpleasant, what must be done will be done. Habitually, you close your eyes.

Your journey ends almost as quickly as it started. Remnants of aether remain intentionally congregated in select places and locating a specific individual, even within an infinite void, is barely a search at all. Lahabrea makes no attempt to conceal his presence, he almost exaggerates it; it comes as no surprise, he has many servants that must contact him often. With a trace, distant touch you summon him, as confident as you can be in your wariness.

The response is instantaneous, Lahabrea's reaction containing none of the restraint that Igeyorhm is prone to, appearing a moment later in the center of your room.

There is nothing but silence - cold, pregnant stillness tainted by moons of grudges and unfinished affairs. Lahabrea stares at you as intently as you stare at him, lips pressed together, clearly displeased that _you_ , of all people, have the knowledge to call upon him.

Neither you nor Lahabrea are outright antagonistic and no attempts are made to conceal your mutual discomfort. It is strangely unified between you, an unspoken acceptance that neither of you are pleased with the situation, yet must come to an understanding, regardless.

In her rare moments of benevolence, Igeyorhm teaches that there are traditions you must follow, no different from the formal greetings and respectful pleasantries you grew up with, but she rarely elaborates beyond what is required between master and servant, choosing instead to stress His absolute laws. Doubtless, knowing more would have been beneficial when summoning Lahabrea, as he makes no attempt to communicate, the awkwardness continually building. It is an unfamiliar formality, as Igeyorhm tells you she is to speak first, but you can only assume that you are expected to voice your desire and begin the negotiation.

"I would ask that you control your servant. Chalice." The request sounds far more neutral and confident than you feel; the words are stiff on your tongue, leaving your throat almost unwillingly, despite your earlier determination to confront the man.

"It is odd that you approach me." Lahabrea, too, keeps his tone neutral, but openly expresses confusion in his words. "Chalice has performed his role flawlessly, what reason do I have to trust and aid you while hindering him?"

Perhaps you did not think this summoning through well enough; you were far too hasty and irrational, driven by Hilda's powerful emotions. You did not consider this particular path of questioning, but Lahabrea has the right of it; he has no reason to trust you. There is only one option.

"You will trust me because you trust Igeyorhm." You respond boldly, perhaps too much so, but it is the only reasoning that stands to convince him. You cannot claim to understand his relationship with Igeyorhm, but after your earlier experience, you are certain they are close enough that this risk will end in your favor.

Lahabrea lapses into silence, eyes boring into you with a glare that you cannot see, but know is there. Behind his mask, the man remains as unreadable as ever, but somehow, everything changed when you named Igeyorhm. It is not anger, but –

Lahabrea steps forward, so near to you that his presence can only be described as inappropriate, no matter the standards of judgement. With barely any distance separating you, your aether touches as closely as your bodies and the differences between your states, between Lesser and Lord, are undeniable, visible even to the blindest beggar **.**

You do not pull away from him, refusing to be intimidated by the show of power. "Remove yourself."

It starts without warning, intentionally contrary, the same intense, overwhelming pressure you experienced when you were resting. Lahabrea is not destructive, as pain and death are not his goal, rather, he seeks assimilation and subjugation. It immediately forces stray thoughts and musings away; any fears and hesitations are banished, secondary to self-preservation.

His touch is raw, shrouding, and enveloping. Unable to break you during that strange fusion with Igeyorhm, Lahabrea recognizes the necessity of a different approach. His new strategy is searing, as if he attempts to separate and melt you, so that he may absorb you entirely, imposing his will on the parts so that overpowers the whole, reforming and molding what remains to his wishes.

Without Igeyorhm to confound him, your resistance has all of the effect on Lahabrea that a tossed pebble may have on an armored soldier's breastplate. You futilely struggle, regardless, hoping that he remains equally incapable of breaking you, clawing against a greater beast with your dull, broken nails.

Collapse is inevitable; you cannot stymie a flood with unwoven wool for long. Lahabrea breaks through the natural barriers surrounding you, greeted with the same instinctual revulsion Igeyorhm instigated your first night beside her. You recoil at the foreign presence, a bitter, festering poison, and against your will you withdraw from your body in a panicked attempt at fleeing. Without another host nearby it is a pointless, irrational action that risks your existence. Your desperation is constrained by instincts that command you to return immediately, before you can even fully leave, powerful enough that you do not even consider denying them. In your body, you are nothing but a splinter trapped within a larger hand; Lahabrea digs, following, probing, and it is only a matter of time before he encapsulates all of you.

Simultaneously rapid and still, like watching the chaos of a chocobo accident in the middle of town, he locates his prize, tainting your core with an almost gentle caress. Slowly, ever so slowly, Lahabrea revels in his victory, savoring your weakness, finally defeating the hated foe who humiliated and banished him.

No, you will not submit. Not to him. _Never_ to him.

You are swallowed by Lahabrea as you are simultaneously swallowed by darkness.

Turbulent dizziness grips you; the foreign presence inside you is confusing, your host reacting as violently as you are, retching in absolute rejection. As if protecting you, the darkness that is not Lahabrea grasps you, viscous, sticking to every part of you, like a thick, unavoidable muddy tar. It draws you more than you draw it, leading, guiding you to an overwhelming strength you never have encountered, let alone wielded, even blessed by the strongest of Light.

The darkness teaches without words, thoughts forming instantly within your essence against your will, memories that are not yours absorbed as if you've experienced them firsthand. They show you the way to mold the strange power, not entirely unlike how Hydaelyn once gifted you an image of the Blade of Light. Aided by pure desperation and the foreign strength, you reject Lahabrea with brutal force, almost tearing yourself apart in the process.

Energy expended, you gasp, falling to your knees. Lahabrea, too, reforms, no longer unacceptably close as he stares intently at you, reverting to the earlier oppressive silence; he does not show weakness, but you recognize he was harmed by your resistance almost as much as you were.

You should not have been able to do that, you know it, Lahabrea knows it; this is not some child's tale where a miracle burst of power rescues you at the last possible moment. You are lesser, young, inexperienced, and weaker by nature than Lahabrea, an ageless master. Perhaps in the future, you may meet him as an equal, truly wielding the strength you just exhibited, but for now you recognize your inferiority.

There is only one explanation, the one you are hesitant to acknowledge. Divine intervention has saved you in the past, with Hydaelyn as your shield. You have been relegated to a lower servant, but nonetheless you are Gifted and, through that, Igeyorhm claims you are one of His favored. He offers you strength, a weapon of unparalleled power, devastating enough to banish the far greater being that sought to claim you.

You are unsettled at receiving His aid, but it is a gift that is impossible to return; you have already accepted it. He would not have you broken by Lahabrea; you belong only to Him.

"So that is why Igeyorhm made no mention of you." Lahabrea speaks, cutting short your musing. Even in your exhaustion you understand the implication of his words; he did not know of your situation, your role. Igeyorhm has kept you hidden, the others unaware that you were an ally. Lahabrea laughs, quiet and to himself, a strange and eerie sound. "Elidibus will not hinder us now."

You cannot know what to say to that, choosing instead to say nothing. You do not wish to draw Elidibus' attentions.

"Very well." Lahabrea continues, when his laughter finally ceases. "Tell me of Chalice."

His mood seems to have improved and he shifts from caution to confidence; Lahabrea has been defeated by you once again, failing in his goal to control what is little more than a child, but in the end he claims utter victory. Hydaelyn's champion has fallen, prostrated in a moment of weakness on the floor before him, politely requesting that Lahabrea monitor his servant so that Igeyorhm's goals may be realized.

If you had not already seared the remains of your shame during the first moon after your death, you would be saturated by it now.

It is a morose thought, one that delays your reply until you've regained some proper semblance of strength and control. When you finally speak, you are pleased when you are able to muster half of your earlier confidence, finally breaching the topic you summoned Lahabrea for. "In his haste, Chalice intentionally interferes; we lack in coordination."

"Or perhaps you act too slowly and Chalice compensates." Lahabrea intentionally provokes you, seeking to gain as much knowledge over a foreign situation as he can. You know his strategy.

Even recognizing he seeks a reaction, your anger rises. You will not take that from him; he can be as much of a fool as he likes with his plans, but you serve Igeyorhm. Ishgard is under her as much as it is Lahabrea; you may not agree with their goals, but if there is one thing you understand, it is responsibility. You will do your duty to the very end, protecting as many people as you can in the process, and you refuse to allow Lahabrea's clod of a servant to impede you.

Your annoyance grows. Already you do the impossible; you mend what _you_ broke and Lahabrea has the gall to tell you to _be faster_ about it? Already you stall your companions, earning extra time so that his plans with Igeyorhm proceed smoothly. Already you have _succeeded_ and would have continued to do so were it not for Chalice.

"I would not say he acts in haste when for every yalm forward I am pushed three back by his irresponsibility!" You bite out with vehemence.

Lahabrea makes no attempt to hide his surprise at your outburst; you are are almost as alarmed as him at your passionate reaction, emotions as foreign to you as they are to Lahabrea.

"The fault is mine." A voice you know well sounds from behind. Unknown to you, some point after arriving Lahabrea summoned Igeyorhm; you do not know when she arrived, but you are certain it was only recently, after Lahabrea's failure. "I did not consider a conflict in their orders." She continues, her presence and cool demeanor seemingly dissipating any remaining frustration, balancing the more impassioned emotions that embrace you and Lahabrea.

Lahabrea's attention is turned from you, deliberately focused on Igeyorhm as he considers her words. You, too, consider, questioning her decisions; you do not see any benefit she would receive from concealing you, though you are thankful she has.

Chalice seems to have made the assumption you did, that Lahabrea knew of you, else he would have reported to his master the first time your purposes clashed.

"She will aid us." Even commanding you, Lahabrea does not turn from Igeyorhm, remaining in a silent, wordless conversation that can only be held by partners who have known each other for untold eras.

"She serves, as do we." Igeyorhm confirms with a nod.

You unwillingly draw upon a brief flash of memory at her words; the pressure of Igeyorhm from within, as you writhe on the ground before her, Gridiania's chill air burning in your lungs. The same command Lahabrea tried and failed to exert upon you. Igeyorhm tolerates no less than utter loyalty from a servant and you have seen to it to give her no reason to distrust you, even as you pursue your own goals.

"As you will it. I will see to it that Chalice does not interfere." His admission of your victory is somehow both bitter and satisfied, as there remains no hostility or resentment in his tone. Without Igeyorhm's presence, you doubt he would have agreed so readily.

Without another word Lahabrea leaves; there is no final glare, no sneering hatred, no hostile touch to you, but a simple, silent teleportation, as if the air between you has somehow cleared. Grudges may remain, but they can be put aside for a greater purpose.

As soon as you are alone with your master, she addresses you, but not with the admonishment you expect; Igeyorhm seems almost amused that you went to Lahabrea before her. "Not often is Lahabrea caught off guard, nor was I expecting you to approach him so readily after his attempt at binding you."

She smiles, a satisfied, haughty expression that does not match her calm demeanor as she continues, drawing as close to you as Lahabrea did. "You are quite proficient at embodying the unknown. It pleases me that you have come to embrace your role, whisperer." Her touch on you is far more passive than Lahabrea's, dizzying and uncomfortable, a blending rather than an absorption. It's unnatural to share aether so closely and you simultaneously want to draw away and draw closer, to learn why such a thing is possible between you.

In the strange state, perhaps aided by Igeyorhm's words and your proximity to her will, you understand, the revelation as clear as if you read it from a missive on the table.

You went to Lahabrea on your own accord; you were given no orders by Igeyorhm save to manage Ishgard, not how to do so, and you were certainly not assigned to speak with her companion to better your position. She waited for you to willingly come into your role, joining the others without her influence.

You withdraw in horror.

It is in this moment, satisfied at your victory over Lahabrea, no longer commanded into action by the icy, pragmatic essence of your master, but by your own desires, that you have truly become an Ascian.

 ** _The Whisperer_**

* * *

Whatever you once thought of Igeyorhm, as a master and as an individual, the last weeks have proven you utterly mistaken; relentless and stubborn, Igeyorhm is as overbearing as her male companion when she chooses to be. Your master comes to you every sun, visiting for bells at a time without explanation, dulling your senses and paralyzing you, preventing your aether's flow throughout your body, like an herb might block the pain of a wound. Standing beside you as you lie incapacitated on your small bed, she molds you, guiding you toward an invisible destination within yourself that you are never quite able to reach.

Despite her forcefulness, Igeyorhm is not cruel as she teaches you the meditation, a focused internal resonance, concentrated withdrawal from all else, requiring you bring order to the innate, uncontrolled turbulence that makes up an essence. It has taken time, but you have finally learned to will yourself into stillness around a point, to reach the level of control she wishes you to command. Such small steps do not satisfy your master and she continues pushing, demanding infinitely more from you.

This day is no different; your focus is intense and thorough until you can no longer feel, until you are little more than free-floating energy contained within a shell, exhausted beyond thought, unable to do anything beyond passively viewing memories and experiencing emotions of the suns, moons, and years past.

Igeyorhm whispers something quietly, coldly, a winter's wind that smothers your campfire and interrupts your only chance at rest. As if changing her strategy, impatient, she pushes at you again, but rather than the subdued instruction she has previously employed, Igeyorhm instead embraces you from all sides.

You are cramped and compacted, slowly being smashed, enclosed within a prison that intentionally smothers you, breaking you apart. The immediate horror of the sensation clears your thoughts, as much as is possible in your weakness, drawing you instantly from your reverie.

You probe the boundary for vulnerabilities, feeling very much like you are locked within a slowly flooding room, the space between the water and the roof becoming smaller and smaller with each passing moment. Igeyorhm is the water to your body, drowning you, encasing you in frigid aether.

There's nowhere to run, nowhere to escape, but further in and in, as Igeyorhm grasps more tightly. You cannot withdraw and you are too weak to fight back. You are crushed by your master until you can concentrate no further, unable to hold onto the black, featureless world of your own making without breaking.

Yet try you do, until it all snaps, despair bursting like a dam from you, the explosion painful and hot, instantly immolating the sheet of ice. There is no pain this time; the rejection is not at all foreign, the dark power of your God entirely absent. The wave of searing energy dismisses Igeyorhm in a way entirely unlike how you rejected Lahabrea.

Your senses do not return immediately, even with Igeyorhm no longer blocking the flowing passages that allow you to control your body. Breaths are instinctual to focus on as you recover, a more natural meditation than the aether-based struggle your master imposes on you.

The first sound you hear when your body finally responds is satisfied laughter. When Igeyorhm recognizes your attentions are focused on her, she speaks, elaborating on her amusement. "Lahabrea was correct; your instinct to survive is second to none. I should have heeded him sooner."

The room is far too bright, Igeyorhm's voice far too loud, as if you have unintentionally emphasized your senses with aether. You press your eyes closed, attempting regulation, but there is nothing to regulate. Your aether is distant from your senses, from your flesh, instead you are centered, moving and influencing with only the slightest light touch. The change is against everything you've learned; for your body to remain whole you must be present everywhere, not simply anchored in its core with the barest tendrils seeping into your extremities.

You almost reel from the revelation, understanding what is off.

You cannot expose it, you can do no more than run your aether over it, invisible and hidden as it is. The new crystal is too tiny, too fragile, nothing but a pulsing stone the size of a pebble, but it is, perhaps, the most important pebble you've ever possessed. It is nothing like the gifts from Hydaelyn, manifesting when earned, this is _you_ , a crystal of concentrated aether forced into existence in a moment of desperation. You could create another if you knew how; perhaps a crystal's creation will become easier on subsequent attempts.

 _This_ was Igeyorhm's elusive, unspoken goal, the development of this diminutive gift.

"You did this." Your emotions are mixed, denying yourself even capable of manifesting such a priceless object so early in your time as an immortal, but your words are accusatory. You are curious, yet cautious; she has some purpose, some unspoken intention to aiding you in the birth of your dark crystal.

"I have always been but a guide, if you did not want this –" She sits beside you on the bed, one of very few times she has relinquished the position of control that she gains from standing above you, and places a hand softly on your breast above your heart, where she once pierced you with her curse, beginning the chain of events that led to your servitude. "-you would not have succeeded. For you, becoming His chosen is neither fate nor destiny."

Open and talkative, you recognize Igeyorhm is pleased, her hand moving from its place over your host's heart, drawing her fingers over your collarbone, brushing, almost tickling, the fragile flesh at the base of your neck until you shiver and turn your face away. She strokes your cheek with the back of her hand, up to your temple and down your chin, the ridges on her gloves making her fingers drag, tempting you like the movement of a cool chain necklace over hot flesh, as she continues. "The crystal is not a gift; you have created it of your own power and demanded He acknowledge you."

You did not feel Him when you created the crystal, but He still sees, fallen as He is; as Father to a new child, He has watched, protecting and guiding you with a firm hand. You are no longer alarmed by His authority over most aspects of your life.

Igeyorhm takes your silence as acceptance, looking down upon you, continuing her affectionate, distracting strokes over your face and neck as you consider her words.

Your master has no reason to lie; she devoted many weeks to your crystal's formation, but it is odd that she speaks as if some great change has come upon you, that with His acknowledgement you've become a different being. There is nothing indicating any differences within you; you're no stronger or more skilled than you were the sun before last, any greater control you've gained over yourself is from your focused meditation, not from the crystal's presence. You do not have a stronger, clearer connection to Zodiark, as Hydaelyn's crystals once gave you to Her; Igeyorhm's essence remains deeply inside you, still master to your servant.

Igeyorhm would not have pushed for this as hard as she did, commanding you halt all of your other duties if there was not some benefit to be gained from this change. It is not surprising that Igeyorhm seeks to continue using you; Igeyorhm has been open, speaking freely of her goals with Lahabrea and having you further them. It only baffles you that they chose this ascension so quickly, knowing your history, when Chalice and the others remain unchanged, loyal dogs that they are, struggling for even the simplest acknowledgement.

"Why now?" You speak your thoughts firmly, finally composed, the remnants of your earlier weakness fading. The timing seems too coincidental; if the creation of a crystal simply required focus and His attention, Igeyorhm could have aided you in creating it sooner – or later, or not at all, if she chose.

"There is no better time." She is close now, leaning so near that her breaths warm your face, quiet words blowing your hair to the side. "Everything is in place; you have shown your devotion and soon will welcome Him into the new world by my side."

You are not surprised; she has made no attempt to hide it. Igeyorhm does not seek the one-way worship Lahabrea demands of his servants. With her free arm, she presses you down so that you are completely below her.

You jolt at the energy in Igeyorhm's lips; formed of aether as her flesh is, each touch between you is an expanding, immediate merging of essence, as if you've dipped your toe into a frigid lake and your entire foot cools in response. Her kiss is a silent question, awaiting confirmation of your acceptance.

It is the first true contact you've had with another's flesh since you were uplifted. Touching others – mortals – is uncomfortable; you taste them unconsciously, like the resonance of the Echo. With Igeyorhm, with your people, touch is communication; it expresses emotion, command - lust. Igeyorhm's touch is more than the simple manipulation of energy; it is cool and soft, embodying emotions you no longer believed could be directed towards you.

She is close, so close; her proximity blends your aether and hers, a cool chill that warms, as ice is wont to melt when in contact with warm water. Temperate water is transferred back to her for cooling, aether tainted with your essence, a cycle of mutual desire.

You have existed within a prison of your own making, fearful of harming others, worrying that you betray your dreams and hopes with every word. Igeyorhm has been your only companion in your darkness, promoting your growth with questions and subtle answers, opening doors that were previously barred closed. It is only when faced with the decision to reject her, that you realize how deeply Igeyorhm has become a part of your life.

Eternity alone in a Void of hostile allies is a very long time, indeed.

It is an odd thing, this game of justification you play, as if there is some crime in thoughts of consensual lust. Perhaps some part of you is still ashamed and reaches for what you've lost; you cannot keep grasping for the stars in the sky, expecting your hands to come back holding treasure, you must create your own happiness, embracing your own desires.

Even as you acknowledge that Igeyorhm's presence beside you is not something you are averse to, you must push her way, regardless of your heart's race and the fierce maelstrom she manipulates inside you.

"What of Lahabrea?" If he disapproves, feeling that you attempt to claim what is his, Lahabrea doubtless will make your existence miserable at any opportunity.

The words do not deter your companion at all; as if the flood has begun, she laughs softly onto your skin, her lips finally tasting yours with all the voracity of a child devouring a long-awaited treat. "What is mine is yours, Shemhazai."

Dispelling any further doubts, Igeyorhm silences traitorous, distracting thoughts and unwanted communication by grasping your arms, holding them down at your sides. It is not the alluring touch of an experienced lover, of the gentle kindness of a devoted one; Igeyorhm is your master, possessive and commanding, your body hers to claim as she sees fit and she wishes to focus her attentions entirely upon you.

Only to her will you submit.

You meet her lips with your own, finally returning the kiss, tasting of her aether-formed flesh. Your breath mingles with hers as she rests her face in your neck. Igeyorhm releases one arm so that she may remove her concealing mask and lower her distracting hood; you are to know all of her without restriction, as she will you.

Igeyorhm's features are neither delicate nor particularly feminine, with high cheekbones and a contrasting large jaw, but she has an aura and appearance as icy as Ysayle's, her hair fine with eyes that match its blue, and lips pale, pink seemingly tinged with the same sleet of her hair and eyes.

She guides your free arm it into the nook of her lower back, so that you pull her down closely, breasts pressing into her, leg tangled; she is light, far lighter than the neutral form she wears would have you assume. Her hand plays at your hair, mingling the strands of yours and hers as she massages the back of your scalp with a light touch, no more than the tips of three fingers. The tease over sensitive flesh, sends warm shivers down your neck and back. You tilt your head back into her hand, melting in satisfaction.

In attempt to return the favor, you draw your free hand up as well, fingers circling in massage over the soft cloth that remains covering her back.

"No." She is firm in her annoyance, pulling away from you so that she sits above your waist, hips resting on yours, again taking hold of your arm and pushing it down.

Her irritation at your insubordination is short lived and shallow, little more than a slap on the hand before she continues where she left off. Igeyorhm moves with a purposeful grace, removing the nightclothes you had not changed from, dragging the corners of soft cotton over your stomach and thighs, her lips trailing over the newly-exposed, lightly-scarred flesh from your neck and down your collarbone.

Ishgard's mornings are cold, but you only feel heat as Igeyorhm's mouth finds a nipple, tongue playing only at raised bump, letting her open lips flicker and taunt the areola before she sucks, sending warmth through your abdomen, a tightening tingle in your muscles that sends tremors throughout your body.

She stops at your shiver, lifting her head, as she allows the aether of her thighs to meld with yours, so that she experiences all you do, amplifying the already-powerful hormones that dictate a mortal form. The tingly warmth does not radiate from your core, but spreads throughout you as energy, flowing, lapping in your core and penetrating your arms and legs, through your stomach and breasts, down to your feet and over your face, a constant, moving tease of hot, flowing water.

Igeyorhm feels it too, her breaths no longer controlled, but released in soft, vulnerable gasps similar to your own, her body trembling atop yours.

In her position above you, she controls your movement, refusing to allow the instinctual grind of your thighs. You squirm under her strength, knowing full well you could break free if you chose to; Igeyorhm leaves you with just enough leniency to tempt, to seek to press against her command, knowing that when you are baited you will be sucked in by the far greater strength.

You allow yourself to fall into her trap, pulling your arms from hers, drawing your master close again so that she falls atop you.

Her weight never lands, the woman shedding her physical body entirely, revealing the dark mass of energy that is her true form. She spreads over you, clouding your vision and enveloping your skin. Igeyorhm's touch is energy, electric and volatile, hot from lust and cold in nature, a contradiction of sensations that are impossible to comprehend simultaneously.

She dissipates completely, merging into your already-filled flesh, a fusion of aether in a container that already bursts at its seams.

Your lust is amplified so thoroughly by her essence that it hurts, as if all of your senses have been multiplied by an increased self-awareness and a second individual's presence; you squirm instinctively, your thighs finally grinding together, barely able to resist the urge to immediately satisfy your shared body. Within you Igeyorhm is heavy; it is no longer the same flow you once shared, but two equal wills struggling for their place, far too close and not nearly close enough, any state of passive equilibrium you had when you encountered Lahabrea within her impossible to reobtain.

You burn as she settles, sweat slicking your flesh, tacky over the sheets of your bed. No longer directly struggling with you, her presence is calming, returning you to an enhanced state of arousal without pain. She gifts you with images, too many to understand, too ancient and varied to comprehend, accompanied by intense feelings - lust, anger, passion, apathy - that are not yours. It is different from the thoughts and memories imposed upon you by Him, different from any command that she has given you. They are emotions truly shared; all that is hers is yours.

Mind and body shared, she compels your hands down, a silent agreement between your will and hers. Your fingers draw up the sensitive skin between your thighs and mons, sending you back into the shivers; the warmth's strength has dulled to a persistent pulse, no longer as sharp but far more persistent, matching the beat of your heart.

After long-awaited temptation, Igeyorhm all but controls you, impatient at your games, demanding you touch. Touch you do, over a wet clitoris, rubbing circular, clockwise, your muscles contracting fiercely, sensations absent from you for so long, seeking release well before you're ready to finish. Your breaths quicken as you close your eyes, pressing down harder onto the soft bulb in vertical motion, focused on the spread of heat, spurred on by the foreign presence. You push Igeyorhm's will down as best you can, hoping to draw the intimacy out longer rather than rush to completion, as she would have you do.

With your free hand, you cross your arm over your chest, cupping a soft breast, rolling your nipple between your thumb and index finger, tugging – at first softly then harder, imagining it is Igeyorhm's sucking as you massage. Your thumb is her tongue, the pressure her lips.

The intensity of need increases and your body will not be denied any longer; it has been too long without release, without any pleasure at all. Your hips raise, begging for your finger's firmer touch; you submit to its commands, pressing harder, rotating faster. Your muscles tense, your toes spreading and back arched, breaths released as quiet, gaspy moans as the pounding heat finally peaks, almost explosive in its power and control over you.

Igeyorhm does not leave you, even finished, reveling in shared satisfaction, embracing the remaining tingles that passively dissipate from your aether. Similar yet different, everything between you fits, a puzzle of aether and contrasting essence. Where Igeyorhm is up, you are down; where Igeyorhm is smooth you are coarse; where one is Light, the other is Dark.

You cannot help but feel that, despite your differences, this is how all was intended to be – a union between willful opposites, coexistence, without the struggle for dominance and control - of master and servant - without an eternal, chaotic wax and wane of power.

Perhaps it is Igeyorhm's memories within you, but in your placidity everything becomes clear, as if a beacon has opened the way through the fog after a week without fresh food and clean water.

It has taken time, but you finally understand Lahabrea's mockery in the Praetorium, his disdain for your single-minded viewpoint.

You can only wonder, after so long, _how could you have been so blind?_

* * *

 _About Lesser Ascians:_

The lesser, black-masked Ascians are only capable of possessing the dead and must do so in order to continue their existence. If there is not a dead body nearby when their old host dies, they're destroyed permanently. They seem to have been raised or 'uplifted' to their position by the red-masked Ascian Overlords. The lesser Ascians are loyal and bound to their Overlords and their masks and numbered titles are derived from them - a 12th follows Lahabrea, an 8th Nabriales, so on.

The Warrior of Light's situation is a bit different, but the same laws that apply to other lesser Ascians apply here.


	14. Igeyorhm, Lahabrea: Antithesis, Part 2

Part 2 of 2 of the Antithesis one-shot series. Be aware of a semi-explicit threesome in this part. I hope people enjoy my self-indulgent experiment.

 _ **Scions of Light and Darkness**_

* * *

Your body is broken.

It is the queerest sensation, to have your body fall apart around you; your muscles respond, but their strength is no longer tempered by your time adventuring, instead by the aether expended to sustain them. Your skin flecks, your nails crack, and your eyes and mouth are dry; the distance your crystal imposes upon you has far deeper effects than you initially recognized and you no longer spread throughout your entire body unless you focus intensely on doing so.

It is disgusting; there is an instinctual revulsion, previously not present when the dead were all you were capable of inhabiting, at the thought of existing within a corpse. You are trapped within a fading prison well beyond decay, but you refuse to leave; it is your body, the only one you want.

"Shemhazai?"

6th Wand interrupts your moment of self-absorbed weakness. The woman is as featureless as the other Lesser Ascians, but surprisingly gentle, stoic, and serene, calmly explaining her master's purpose without the arrogance you've come to expect from Lahabrea's servants. You recognize her façade; the woman is dangerous, just as much as you, her personality the result of a servant taking upon the traits of the master. The placidity reminds you uncannily of yourself under Hydaelyn, before Igeyorhm's influence spread through you.

"I will consider your master's proposal." It is the best you can offer without speaking directly to Altima. Wand is nothing if not intelligent, using familiar methods in her arguments to appeal to you – and appeal she does, with moderation and temperance that are far more suited to your taste than Lahabrea's brash ideals.

Wand does not appreciate your ambiguity, her master no doubt becoming increasingly impatient after approaching you multiple times, but before she can respond, the presence that has been silent, watching, hiding deeply in the shadows of the Library as you destroyed its guardians, lets itself be known. Igeyorhm steps directly into Wand's view, her arms snaking around your waist in what can only be described as a display of possession. It is an unspoken and hostile message, from one master to another; Igeyorhm will not tolerate any attempts at drawing you away.

"It would be prudent to consider quickly." 6th Wand's tone does not change, the same pleasant restraint, but it is clear that she is just as annoyed at the interruption as Igeyorhm is about the interference, and the lesser leaves quickly, returning from whence she came.

"Altima wastes no time." Igeyorhm keeps her tone neutral in her disapproval, but she does not remove her arms, one hand moving down your thigh, between your legs, alarming in her boldness, seeking to touch before she has even properly greeted you.

"Nor do you." You are not particularly disinclined to her affections; she has been teasing you with her presence ever since you started your journey into the depths of Gubal, stroking and playing with your aether as you commanded it in battle, tainting it with her ice, the distractions almost leading you into harm on more than one occasion.

Igeyorhm is entertained by your response, seemingly pleased that your submission is no longer necessitated.

"You've been amusing yourself with the mortals again." She whispers, close to your flesh, your hair billowing from her breaths. It is a strange topic; she has been previously apathetic about how you spend your free time.

There is no point in denying her the truth; she knows your purpose here, the tome remains in your sack, even now. You nod, and her hand on you waist finds its way under your top, running up and over your breast, the claws on her gloves trailing, teasing, refusing to touch beyond your areola, but promising more, fingers fluttering just outside the most sensitive regions.

"What do they seek?" Igeyorhm only deepens her touch once she asks, rolling your nipple slightly until you can no longer resist her completely, abdomen warming and vagina tingling, naturally lubricating; she takes your arousal as confirmation of your willingness to continue, her other hand slipping under your undergarments, but only just placing pressure on your clitoris – she will only continue if you provide her the answer she desires.

It is odd that she tests you in this way, with this game, rewarding you for answers rather than commanding them. "You know what they plan." Your voice is breathier than intended, providing a question, rather than an answer.

"I would hear it from you." She is insecure, you are certain. Igeyorhm worries that you will approach Altima and she will do everything within her power to stop you.

The blood in your veins chills and it is not from Igeyorhm's aether; perhaps her fears are well founded, even with your tendency to hold your companions close within your heart.

"The Scions seek passage to Azys Lla, but need an aether-based tool to pierce its shields. Gubal has resources that will aid in its creation." The effects of Igeyorhm's touch are dulled at your whispery admission, a willing betrayal. "They will not make it in time." As you finish speaking, you remove her hands from you, grasping them in between your own, missing her touch before it is even gone.

Igeyorhm offers more than pleasure; her touch should never be offered as a shallow reward for obedience.

Your lust changes, mutating in emotional turmoil. You turn to face Igeyorhm; she is to see _you,_ not the servant she has raised. Now that you've a crystal, you're not only tool, but a creature with her own desires and will, eternally bound into service by His laws. You did not open your mind and body to Igeyorhm so that she can further control you.

Always submitting to a greater power, always loyal; from Warrior of Light to Servant of Darkness, nothing changes, an eternal dance – a dramatic theatre.

You are done with being only a tool.

You press close to Igeyorhm, guiding her - not permitting her to guide you - until her back is against one of the bare, dusty desks. Deep in the bowls of the Library, there is no one to find or judge you. There is no comfort here, no bed to relax on, no soft strokes over bare flesh, only smooth aged wood and false, aether-sustained forms.

You are not one to be passive; you will take your pleasure, it is only yours to control, not another's.

Igeyorhm gives easily, willingly being pushed onto the desk below you, allowing you to encircle your arms around her neck, entwining your fingers through her hair under her hood as you pull it down. Your knowledge of her cool aether is second only to your familiarity with your own; she seems to absorb the heat of your body, of the very air around you, replacing it with a chill, driving you closer for warmth. You move atop her completely, spreading your legs over her hips, resting on your knees on the desk as your weight sits in her lap.

"You are magnificent." She murmurs between kisses so fervent and cold that they burn as you pull off her mask, tossing it to the desk, forgotten as soon as it leaves her face. "Ravana, Bismarck, I could but admire. But now –"

You cut her off with your lips, understanding. Her body's reaction differs entirely from when she commands, her breaths deeper and she leans fully into you, pulling you as closely as she can, breathing harshly into your neck. Your aether dances over her, warming her chill far more than she cools you. This is what she has wanted– what you have wanted – this show of power, the strength you've always had, but have been unable to demonstrate.

It is as liberating for you as it is alluring to her.

She shrugs off her outer cloak entirely as she falls back onto the desk, dust clouds billowing through the air around her as she exposes her body below you, open and vulnerable.

"Let me be with you, without this decaying vessel separating us." She does not command, but request.

Even Igeyorhm recognizes that your body weakens; there is some shame in that, in your unwillingness to abandon a broken form well past its suitability, somehow like continuing to use a broken weapon just because you are fond of it. You do not respond, choosing instead to lean over her, meeting her eyes.

You find no beauty in her eyes or face, as she finds none in your breasts or hips; physical appearance is irrelevant when you have no true physical form. Her aether is beautiful, the way it dances beneath you, the skill she commands, and how it molds with yours, following, binding, almost as if worshipping. It is odd how easily you accept the foreign Ascian mentality, but to you, all that is Igeyorhm is aether – and she wants to see you, as you see her, unhindered by the form you wear.

"Like this." She assumes your silence signifies confusion, still unable to comprehend your attachment to your body. Igeyorhm pulls at you softly, far more gently than she is normally prone to, dragging you from the walls of your body she attempts to guide you, as she always does.

You push her aether away, refusing aid. "I can't." Without your presence, your body will fall apart. You cling tightly, like a child to a favored toy, so worn and well-loved that it falls apart at its seams.

Finally understanding, she stops her tug, amusement tainting her voice. "I'll care for your host, worry not." To alleviate your concern, she presses her core aether into your form beside you with enough force that you're almost pushed out, unprepared for her assault. It will do, you trust she can sustain it in your place, even if you lack the skill to.

Perhaps you should be frightened or uncomfortable; instead you feel nothing but relief as you leave your body, slipping out for the first time, the constant effort needed to maintain it finally eliminated. Finally unrestrained, you did not realize how much strength your body drew from you, how much mortal limitations hindered your capabilities.

The loss of direct senses somehow both blinds and frees you, direct sight impossible, but now somehow able to see anywhere. At first it seems no different than a precise, directed movement of a finger; if you wish to see, you spread, energy running over objects, recognizing their size, their shape, almost as quickly as your brain would process the messages your eyes send it, but with curiosity, you quickly realize that there are different methods of sight, sending out waves to paint a larger, direct picture of your surroundings, instantly receiving all of the sensations in your core. You are aware of everything, from sight to smell to temperature and even the pressure of foreign ambient aether, without truly perceiving it using any familiar sense.

Igeyorhm's aether is no longer felt only as cool, sharp and electric. Igeyorhm is recognized simply as Igeyorhm; you distinguish her easily from the aether around you, controlled and precise, interacting only with you rather than the chaos of your surroundings.

This is how you were intended to touch her, to feel her true nature, not hindered behind the limitations of dead flesh.

No matter how fresh and fascinating, none of these experiences serve your purpose; limited as aetheric mass, you slowly congregate, focusing inwards. You know how it's done, it's easy, almost instinctual. It was alarming when you first witnessed Nabriales forming his body, but the surprise is replaced with a dull acknowledgment, of a natural understanding of exactly what you do without intending to do it, very much like breathing.

Knowledge of skeletal structure and muscles are unneeded; shape is all that is necessary. Countless layers of aether emulate tissue and organs; systems need not be emulated at all, driven by your natural circulatory flow. Sights, smells, tastes, sounds all normalize, comprehended no differently than your mortal form, but your exposed skin reacts to every movement and interaction of ambient aether, distracting and unpleasant. You understand why Ascians clothe themselves so thoroughly; uncovered as you are, you instinctively reach out, attempting to touch everything, to learn and manipulate your environment, requiring focus and strict control to stop yourself.

Your logic acknowledges that this is your true form now, even if your emotions still hold attachment to the host you use.

Finally prepared to continue, you return your attentions to your partner; Igeyorhm has disappeared, her discarded cloak and mask gone with her, as she fulfills her promise to keep your host stable. You touch her curiously inside your body, trying to draw her to you. She plays coy, acting very much the mouse to your cat, eluding any contact, refusing to leave unless you drag her out, but still she draws you in, wanting to feel, wanting to know, wanting to learn.

She cannot expect you to -

Gods, it is _wrong_. Igeyorhm cares not a lick about the morality of pleasing your own flesh and she uses you body's hand to grasp at you, pulling you so that you again sit atop her. Your earlier confidence momentarily falters, but with your aether reacting to every bit of Igeyorhm, demanding you learn and caress her as she does the same to you, you find the idea not entirely abhorrent. It does not feel like you; it is her taste that spices the flesh beneath you, her aether running between your thighs, through your lips, molding under your fingertips; if she would speak, it would be in her voice. Appearance is irrelevant; it is Igeyorhm, no matter what form she wears.

It is very much a game, watching how she reacts as you run your finger over her arms, removing the remaining interfering clothes; it is an odd, distant sensation for you, nothing like the familiar erratic panting, the raw pulsing heat and trembles when Igeyorhm touched your body. In this form, emotions are driven by aether, not hormones, yet there is no logic in this act, no precision you'd expect from the lack of mortal weakness; aether is even more malleable than flesh, responding to your satisfaction, distributing waves of diluted yet dynamic arousal through you, cool and soothing rather than hot and tingling, like freshly pressed silk.

The barrier of flesh subdues Igeyorhm, limiting her ability to respond to your strokes, your kisses, your aether; she is yours to command, unable to stop you from influencing the desired response. You suck your body's hot flesh, the salt of sweat from your adventures barely registering, letting your aether drag hard, pulling Igeyorhm so that she feels everything you do, not permitting her to focus on anything but you.

With flicks of aether, in and out, your tickle her neck; Igeyorhm rewards you with the response you seek, a violent tremor, causing goosepimples to ripple over her flesh. Again you try, over her lips, in and out, emphasized with a fluttering touch. It has an even more dramatic effect, and Igeyorhm releases a strangely shy, almost feminine breathy sound against your mouth that is thoroughly satisfying to have caused.

"You are cruel." Igeyorhm pants before you can try again, exploring more sensitive locations, almost begging you to stop, your tease a foreign pleasure seemingly alien to her.

You almost pity her; even when she pleases you, there is no true teasing, just soft affection or utter dominance, moderation unknown. For once, there is something you can teach her.

You lift your face from hers, sitting up so that you have access to her entire body with your fingers. The manipulation of foreign aether is easier than the manipulation of your own, and Igeyorhm allows you access to hers easily as you draw, in and out, moving like a breath under your fingers, feeling the senses she does; you are warm, to her, temperate but not hot, a different heat than the heat of arousal, easy to distinguish.

As with when she pleased you, the warmth circulates through her, not localized in her abdomen, but spreading through her body. You draw it out too, holding it in you, not just sharing the feeling, but filtering the tingling, leaving Igeyorhm cold, allowing your own aether to amplify it, sending it right back in waves, far more powerful than the pleasure was initially.

Again and again you tease, removing and reintroducing the localized sensations, replacing it in a different region, never letting her breaths equalize, taunting her, emphasizing the pulse in her breasts, sucking, nibbling, rolling – but never staying too long, never giving her the comfort and consistency she desires.

You know your touch has its intended effect when Igeyorhm's back arches slightly, her hand snaking its way down in order to finish what you've started, but have only denied. No, it is not time – you are not done yet; you grasp her hand before she can rub, holding her second arm down as well, as she does to you.

"Patience. You mustn't be hasty." You are aware that pushing for patience in the other woman is akin to asking the moon to stop its cycle, but today, and in the future, you are in control. She will listen, if you demand it.

Igeyorhm seems appalled by your command, as if you are denying her direct request for pleasure. She has made progress, but still she does not understand; you lift her hand to your mouth for a kiss, a silent promise that you will give her all she wants and more.

The motion does not seem to satisfy her, only instantaneous pleasure will, and Igeyorhm's lips press together, her thoughts unreadable. Without warning, Igeyorhm's aether elevates, wrapping around her, withdrawing as she teleports away, leaving you alone, aroused, and unblinking in the depths of Gubal.

Her reaction is odd, certainly unwarranted and entirely unexpected. Uncharacteristic awkwardness overwhelms you, reminiscent of propositioning an attractive partner and being publically rejected. You would not have thought her capable of such absurdity.

To your utmost, emphatic dismay, Igeyorhm's reason for leaving becomes clear within no more than a minute.

It is convenient, far too convenient. Igeyorhm is planning something at your expense, be it out of revenge, curiosity, or whatever nonsensical ideas she has floating in her head that you refuse to consider. She must have summoned him, there is no other explanation for his knowledge of your presence, if he even knew you were here at all.

It is the first time Lahabrea has violated your unspoken, but mutually understood pact of non-intervention, his aether humming with barely-hidden hostility.

Despite his demeanor, Lahabrea remains professional, keeping his eyes raised and focused away from your nudity, not even expressing surprise at it. He is well aware of the intimacy in your relationship with Igeyorhm, as you are aware of his; his arrival may have been instigated by Igeyorhm, but it is not her that he approaches you about.

"You overstep your boundaries, speaking with that servant." Lahabrea accuses; he probes, hoping for you to unintentionally slip, exposing hidden knowledge – you know his game well enough.

"Nothing I do will hinder us." You are cautious; now knowing what he seeks from you, it is easier to control the conversation. Lahabrea is provoking you, no need to fan his flame. Even without your reassurance, Lahabrea must be well aware that His laws prevent your direct interference. It was one of the very first lessons Igeyorhm taught you, the one you know above all others. "What I do with my time is not your concern."

"It is my concern when you meddle with Altima." You cannot help but be annoyed that Igeyorhm did not finish this confrontation herself, instead drawing Lahabrea into a personal matter. "You were not raised so that you would act out on your own."

He's being ridiculous in his paranoia; you've not even met with Altima, only spoken with her servants. You still have the advantage; he knows you've been in some distant form of communication, but does not realize the lack of depth to it. "You assume too much. I've not agreed to any alliance."

 _Not yet._

"If you were of mind to reject her, you already would have." For the first time since his arrival, you hesitate, recognizing that Lahabrea is not entirely wrong. You have no way to counter that short of outright lying.

He notes your hesitation, baring down, drawing close, as is his way, to pressure you into an admission - to finish this nonsense before it can even truly start. It only makes you want to do the opposite; you do not belong to him, he has no place in making decisions for you.

"Her interest compromises _our_ purpose." He continues, so close that you can taste him, his assumption only adding to the depths of your anger, any conversation with words finished.

Lahabrea must know that you are not intimidated; he can no longer bind you. You are weaker, yes, and less skilled, but perhaps not so innately inferior, especially now that you are no longer limited by your body.

There is a change as the thoughts pass through you, subtle at first, barely recognizable for what it is. Your anger is not soothed, but altered, mutated by a foreign influence. The harsh edges smoothed, replaced with –

It's horrifying, you refuse to even acknowledge it as more than a stray musing at the back of your mind. It remains persistent, pulsing through you even as you reject it, until ignoring the intrusion is impossible.

 _All that is hers is yours –_ Igeyorhm gifts you with memories, emotions, and heat, injected and thoroughly absorbed within you as if they were yours to begin with.

You are certain she does the same to Lahabrea, as he stops his onslaught as instantaneously as you halt your rigid defense, his breaths rapid, his chest heaving against yours. Undoubtedly, Igeyorhm must be terribly satisfied with herself, pleased at how easily she can manipulate the both of you into emotions neither of you have any interest in experiencing.

It is a curious thing, this desire for Lahabrea. Logically, your mind rejects it, recognizing the thoughts are not yours and that you've no interest in him, but your aether refuses rationality, as disobedient as a mortal body in the heat of passion. You touch, mingling, clinging, sticky like sap, refusing to leave once it has dried on your flesh. Even when you are capable of pulling away, Lahabrea holds you tightly and it is the same within you, unintentionally denying him freedom, commanding him to stay and merge yet more, a tangled, integrated mass, melting together as thoroughly as wax.

It's doubtless that you both serve Igeyorhm's goals well, antagonism temporarily put aside as you attempt to unravel this mess of hers, but still she pushes harder, not satisfied with such limited results. You can feel her now, close, but not materialized, split between the both of you, slinking deeper and deeper into you.

It is no longer simple lust; it is nothing like your desire for Igeyorhm, the desire for touch and companionship. You breathe heavily now, warmed at the fantasy of Lahabrea on the ground below you, ashamed at his weakness and squirming, begging for more, with it in your power to give and take what you please.

You know he wishes all the same for you, the emotions shared fiercely, amplifying as they transfer through the web connecting you.

The image of his submission, the desire for his acceptance of your superiority, neither are Igeyorhm's memories; you are beyond her influence now. You are not even certain it is Lahabrea's emotions having an effect on you. After so long living under the shadow of his actions, it is fully within your power to take control. You will not lose this chance.

It is, perhaps, the first time both you and Lahabrea are in complete agreement.

In sync you begin, opposite but identical goals of domination and subjugation. It is almost bestial, physical and ruthless; he pushes at you, you push at him, struggling against each other with only your bodies, grasping at each other's arms, holding tightly around his waist. It is nothing like wrestling, there is no rolling about the floor or beating, but nor is it not a subtle struggle of physical and mental strength, the results so intense that Igeyorhm could not hinder you, even if she was of mind to.

It comes as no surprise that Lahabrea overpowers you with his aether, but you immediately recognize the situation favors you. You've been an adventurer – you still act as one – in your mortal body, you must evade and endure, requiring the agility and strength that Lahabrea has neglected to develop when forming himself. It was not an intentional advantage you considered when creating your aether-flesh, but it exists nonetheless. Without it, you will succumb, the result entirely unacceptable.

You claw, your fingers digging into his robes as deeply as his aether digs into your flesh, using your greater strength to push him down. A snarl, followed by a wordless growl, the source impossible to determine sounds through your core; recognizing his disadvantage as quickly as you do, Lahabrea pushes harder. There is no intent to maim or kill; his aether spreads over you, enveloping you entirely until your senses are dulled, until all you see is black and red, until you are filled only with him. Lahabrea attempts to unmake your form, to unravel the muscles you've created by placing himself between them, to melt you, limiting your movement and thoughts, to place you entirely under his command.

He is deep inside you now, as you press him even harder to the ground, holding his arms down. He squirms, Gods _he squirms_ , your fantasy an alluring reality, his legs and waist shifting below you, unable to remove your heavier weight. His hands grasp futilely at your wrists; you grasp them back, holding them tightly. The pressure of his aether pushes you down, closer, so that you fall on top of him, unable to stay upright any longer. But still you hold him down, denying him freedom, denying him any control, denying him all of his goals by your form's refusal to bend under his power.

You have no excuse; you can't twist logic to justify your actions this time. You take Lahabrea because his body below you makes your aether fiercely uncontrollable in a way that Igeyorhm's touch can never match.

Nothing you do in the future will match this. Your thoughts are his; _all_ that is Igeyorhm's is yours – you belong to Lahabrea as much as he belongs to you. You recognize his anger at his limitations, a weakness he can do nothing to alleviate with you as deeply inside him as he is in you. He recognizes your arousal; it drives him deeper, deeper, so deeply that there is nothing that distinguishes you from Lahabrea. You are a singular mass of rage and desire, unity filling an emptiness within that you were not aware you even held.

Your lust is an individual beast, untamable, undeniable, but still you come to a mutual, hesitantly submissive understanding in a shared mind, a stable compromise of two creatures, determined and far too stubborn to give in to one another individually: if you wish to have Igeyorhm, it must be shared; you cannot have one without the other.

Your body falters, Lahabrea's shared aether finally tearing you apart, a painless, controlled breakdown and a decisive victory, one that comes too late to matter. You remain within him, bodiless, attached to his flesh, circulating around and through, unable to distance yourself entirely. The connection between you is literal and you rely on his cool flesh and thoughts to ease your focus on your surroundings.

Igeyorhm has succeeded thoroughly, the web between you permanently entwined, impossible to completely detangle.

While you and Lahabrea struggled for supremacy, Igeyorhm rematerialized, her presence clear now that you've calmed and your focus is no longer intently on each other. You turn to her, but are greeted with the most alarming sight. The other woman remains in your body, laying horizontally on the same desk you held her over earlier, her legs spread, one over each side, her chest heaving, her skin shining, covered in sweat, her arm over her abdomen, rubbing fiercely, her back arched, mouth open slightly, finishing the pleasure you earlier stopped as she watches the two of you.

Everything becomes clear for Lahabrea as quickly as it does you, but her visage evokes different emotions from the male, visions of your body below him, as his was below you just a moment ago – just as you were atop Igeyorhm, before Lahabrea arrived. It is impossible to disagree with his desire, your vivid memories unintentionally shared, spurring him into action.

"I've been waiting for you to finish." She pants softly, eyes glazed as she looks over you; she does not address you individually, it would not be right to do so.

Your shared aether is erratic, Igeyorhm appealing to you in ways she never has before, Lahabrea's fantasies influencing yours. As tempting as she is, you urge Lahabrea not to proceed with haste; just as how you forced him down, you will be at a disadvantage if you approach your host with the goal of submission. In it, Igeyorhm is stronger and heavier, your body made of tempered flesh and not aether; unless she wishes to rest under you, she will not do so.

It is not possible to get closer than you are with Lahabrea; Igeyorhm has no interest in trying to join with you, or pull you apart. Instead, the woman employs a familiar strategy, running fingers over you, her aether tugging, probing repeatedly in and out, sending flickering jolts of ice through the heat, frigid and shocking, like an unexpected snowstorm after a night near a warm fire. Lahabrea releases a thorough tremor, every part of him shivering, shaking; he is expressive, reacting thoroughly, unlike the more subdued and localized reactions of Igeyorhm and your own. It is more than the simple amplification of feeling between you, not just an echo chamber of aetheric reaction, it is a difference in his nature, volatile and explosive.

He withdraws deeply into you, giving you full control, immediately disquieted at Igeyorhm's curious and not-quite-successful attempt to emulate your earlier teasing. Lahabrea does not understand, even with your knowledge. This is not affection, the touch is almost violent in intensity and does not directly further his desire; erratic teasing of this type is unfamiliar and unexpected, traits he dislikes immensely, his mood souring when he does not receive what he seeks.

You cannot but be amused, thoughts seeping into Lahabrea, softening his overall distaste. It is almost innocent, and just as sad as when Igeyorhm did not understand your experimentation. No matter Lahabrea's displeasure, you are satisfied that Igeyorhm has taken well to the methods you imparted on her. Lahabrea will come to enjoy it, too, in time, once he understands such teasing is not intended as cruel.

You and Igeyorhm work to coax him to calmness through more traditional strokes, the ones Igeyorhm taught you, the ones you felt Lahabrea use on her. She is gentle in her use of persistent pressure, flowing through thickened, cooling magma, breaking the bonds between you and Lahabrea, but creating new ones, adding complexity and stability, demanding calmness of a previously-boiling inferno, before moving on, cooling your entire form, pleasant and short-term, like a dip in a river on a broiling day.

It is, just barely, enough to stop Lahabrea's sulking and to have him assist you in touching Igeyorhm in return, melting the crystalline barrier she has created between herself and your host –

It is apparent immediately that she is struggling; it is a sign of her absolute pride and strength that she does not express her weakness, or request your aid, but she suffers from the same instinctual revulsion from your host's slow decay that you do, weakened by the need to sate its constant thirst for aether. Lahabrea's reaction is instantaneous and surprising; completely in agreement with your plans, he draws Igeyorhm possessively, enveloping her, letting your shared aether spread around as a buffer, pulling her within you, replacing her presence with his.

It is most unexpected for the independent and haughty Lahabrea to act in a supportive manner, but Igeyorhm does not share your surprise, instead filling in holes that seemed to have been carved specifically for her, the final piece of the puzzle.

There is no final goal to this union, no furthered intensity, no shivers, no heat, no teasing. Sharing an existence with another is overwhelming but tolerable; sharing with two is all-encompassing, entrancing your focus entirely. It is not directly pleasure, but comfortable satisfaction and completeness. All of your troubles and worries are irrelevant, a muted, temporary passiveness, reminiscent of the post-coital simplicity where all that matters is your partner – all that matters is unity.

You return to the Scions that night, uncomfortable, disheveled, disjointed, and empty, sharing with them the tome Matoya sought, to their eager smiles and rare expressions of hope, knowing you've made a terrible mistake. You are tied to Igeyorhm – to Lahabrea – now; it is different than before, no longer an unwilling servant to a master, you've done this on your will, with the two individuals you cannot continue to support. They are rash; you cannot fault them for their loyalty, but what they plan, their methods – you will never agree with them.

Hindering Lahabrea and Igeyorhm with Altima is now out of the question.

Your troubles will only worsen from here, you are certain; there is no happy ending that can come of this tale.

 _ **Shemhazai**_

* * *

Through the shrouded haze of snowfall, hidden behind a veil of unbroken grey, someone watches you.

The invader, a distant, male, foreign presence who does not even bother concealing his curiosity as he keeps himself hidden, focuses intensely on you while desperately feigning apathy, evading any of your efforts to locate him. It is a fierce contradiction that only secures his guilt.

He is gentle and makes no attempt to harass you, but his prolonged presence grates at your already-frayed nerves, unconsciously setting you on edge. You've a duty to the Scions, to aid them one final time as they enter Azys Lla, you cannot be amusing a meddling ally as well.

Sensing your agitation in the way you return his touches, the presence finally relents, darkness congregating on the lonely bridge beside you before forming into robes, as pale as an unmarred snowfield.

Elidibus offers you a formal greeting, respectful and distant in his native tongue, testing you. You habitually and confidently engage in his dance, answering his greeting with identical formality, making certain he recognizes your equality, not your subservience. Elidibus is the last individual you wished to encounter.

"How unexpected." Again he runs his aether over you, no longer evasive. Elidibus keeps his tone neutral, almost pleasant, it is only through his persistent touches does he indicate his surprise. After what he initiated in La Noscea, planning for you to witness the Sahagin Elder's transformation as a demonstration of the Echo's power, he doubtless expected this transition, if not quite so soon. "You are with Lahabrea?"

"In a manner of speaking." Let him read what he will from that, it is true in only the vaguest sense; Elidibus is obligated to nothing, least of all knowledge of your allegiances.

"Let us not lead each other false; we are both aware that Lahabrea is. . .difficult." The gentle tone continues even as he chides you. He is blunt, alarmingly so, speaking with the assumption of your agreement, even before you've discussed any alternative viewpoints. Perhaps he judges you rightly; you've an unpleasant history with Lahabrea, more so than even Elidibus can know. "He is a skilled leader and thoroughly convincing when he chooses to be, but he does not serve as we do."

It is a side of Lahabrea that you are not familiar with, but he has been successful, retaining allies and pursuing his goals relentlessly, so there must be some truth to it.

He makes no mention of Igeyorhm, be it because he mistakenly believes she is irrelevant or is under the misguided impression that you served under Lahabrea. Altima learned of you, yet Elidibus did not; something rings oddly of this, even with Elidibus' call for honesty.

Elidibus takes your silence as agreement, continuing.

"Have you agreed to Lahabrea's plan?" You shake your head, cautiously; the recklessness of his plan is why you sought an alternative when Altima approached you. "Nor have I. Nor have the others. Lahabrea works only to benefit his own cause. Well-meaning or no, this –" he motions to the changing, unbalanced aether in the air, instigated by the subject of your conversation. "- is not what He intends."

 _Lahabrea is rogue_. It's a startling revelation and the reason for Igeyorhm's and Lahabrea's anger at your communication with Atima's servant becomes clear. They have been using you, as you've known, but they have manipulated you as well, leading you to believe theirs is the only true path, that the others are misguided in their beliefs, weak in their refusal to act immediately.

You press your lips together; you expected honesty, for the truth to be revealed, not concealed. Your foundations are shaken, what you thought you knew is a lie; His truth is the only one you know now, all else unstable.

With the admission of distaste for Lahabrea's plans, you now understand why Elidibus does not dawdle, his bluntness representative of desperation and haste. That he approaches you, an individual he does not even know he can trust, proves the lengths the man is willing to go; time is running out and he cannot act on his own.

No, you're mistaken; Elidibus is not that soft. You are expendable. Elidibus believes you are Lahabrea's follower, or at least that you have been influenced by him. Losing one as inexperienced, young, and malleable as you would not impact Elidibus, but it may hinder Lahabrea. Elidibus has no power over you; when you formed your crystal, Igeyorhm claimed it was neither fate nor destiny that led you to your position, but your own power. You are nothing but a feral beast he seeks to bind to his will, wild and untamed.

"It is to our mutual benefit to continue as He wills, denying Lahabrea's vision." Elidibus concludes his argument.

"You seem to believe that I will not immediately return to Lahabrea." Even if you agree with him, it is clear Elidibus approaches so that he may divine your intentions and, if they are compatible with his, use you to see his will through. "What reason do I have to aid you?"

You will not be used, not by Lahabrea, not by Elidibus.

"You are a rational creature, you know what is at stake." Elidibus pointedly turns from you, his gaze sweeping over the Scions below you at the airship dock, your weakness exploited to the world. He knows, just as you do, that you have no choice but to assist; the lives of your friends depend on it. "Words will not sway Lahabrea, do not doubt that I have tried. Unfortunately, there is no hero to banish him this time." He does not seem to be mocking you, but you his manner is constantly passive and it is impossible to discern his true thoughts.

As much as you dislike Lahabrea's mannerisms, at least he is blunt, his expectations blatantly stated, his goals exposed to those he deems allies; Elidibus is a mystery, dangerous, his intentions shrouded even as he layers you with flattery. You are loathe to admit it, but you would far sooner trust Lahabrea than Elidibus. "What do you propose?" You ask, bitterly, misliking how he toys with you.

"I speak with His voice, so that the laws are upheld: for the benefit of all who serve, you _will_ stop Lahabrea." It is not a proposal, it is not an agreement, it is a command, spoken under His name, demanding your subservience.

He is no longer dancing around what he expects from you; if words will not work, force is required. You still do not like it, the command he has forced upon you. "You ask the impossible." Even if you are able raise a hand against him with Elidibus' command, you cannot 'stop' Lahabrea any more than he can stop you. You can banish him at most.

Again Elidibus tilts his head to the side, looking down to the Scions, who have stopped their fretting and fussing over the airship, with a new addition – even from a distance you recognize Urianger as he converses with Y'shtola, as unchanging as ever, his consistency welcome. Elidibus turns back to you again, meeting your eyes, severe, far less pleasant than when he first greeted you.

"You're resourceful, you'll find a way to see His will through." His words send a chill through you.

The conversation is over, there is nothing more to say. He offers you a formal, but far less distant, touch, one that is almost affectionate, as a farewell, leaving you alone in the chill to see your 'agreement' through.

Not even the muffled, peaceful silence of snowfall can smooth the edge off your anxiety, but the sight of an old friend fills you with enough warmth to place a smile on your face as you walk the long path down onto the landing to where the Scions continue to converse privately.

". . .'Twas but blind chance or providence that I did spy it, hidden among Moenbryda's last effects." Urianger speaks. He holds a large item before Y'shtola, only turning to you once he senses your presence. You offer a smile and nod in return to his greeting, looking down to the topic of their conversation.

It is a coincidence.

No, this is beyond coincidence, this is an impossibility. Your mouth replies with a soft, distant grunt of recognition, but your mind races, wondering how his timing can be so perfect, and, more importantly, _does he know?_

Urianger notices your intense focus on the auracite, holding it out before you. You lift it from his hand and he continues, his words little more than an endless droning buzz in your discomfort. Somehow, the powers of the auracite seem much more abhorrent than when you first wielded one against Nabriales. You would hesitate to use it, even against Lahabrea.

You push the item deeply in your sack and out of your mind, finally able to focus on the ever-professional Urianger as he finishes his speech. "...Pray, give me your pledge that you will strike them down and avenge our fallen comrade."

You move quickly to agree, but it is little more than an obligated, instinctual response, the sounds refusing to form on your tongue. Blaming Moenbryda's death on Lahabrea and Igeyorhm is no different than condemning you for it. They are not guilty simply because they are Ascian; you are even more at fault than they, in your inability to destroy Nabriales on your own. You cannot make that pledge.

Urianger senses your hesitation, recognizing its strangeness. The insecurity is not like you; you've made a mistake, Urianger has not seen you since Ul'dah. He would not heave experienced the slow change in your mannerisms, a shift towards caution that started well before Igeyorhm took you.

Your worst fears have come to pass as Urianger questions you wordlessly, his gaze intense. You try to give him a smile, to show him the security and confidence he expects, but it is too late. He sees what Y'shtola does with his Sharlayan tool, how the flow of your aether has changed, how much effort it takes to keep yourself standing, let alone whole.

Time slows to a crawl and you see every bit of Urianger's reaction, from surprise, to the clench of his jaw. As if finally understanding, he looks to the ground at your feet where, even in the limited sunlight, the truth is bared to all.

"You are an Ascian. How?" Urianger's tone is surprisingly apathetic as he condemns you, more curiosity than anger, as if he is more interested in how such a thing could have happened rather than caring that it happened it at all. It is an odd reaction, even from him.

"What–?" Y'shtola interrupts in confusion, but you see her mind working, the cogs rotating, quickly putting the missing pieces together, fitting them perfectly to her queries. When she speaks, it is fully in condemnation, lacking any of the inquisitiveness Urianger's words contained. You have lied to Y'shtola and Alphinaud more than anyone; her anger is justified. "You've been on your own, these last moons, detached. Whatever it was that plagued you, it seemed you wanted to face it without us." Her tone is a strange mix of disgust and bafflement, emotions saturating her words. "I thought 'twas Ul'dah that laid heavily on your heart."

Y'shtola's unspoken 'I was wrong.' pierces you, your deception more successful than you ever imaged.

"I'm sorry." There is no other response, you've no excuses. Once you gained your freedom you did not turn your back on Igeyorhm, even when it was well within your power to do so; they can never understand the curse of the Echo that bound you, first to Igeyorhm, then to Him.

Urianger remains blessedly silent, deeply in thought; facing the other woman is difficult enough without his interjection.

The Scion bares down, your apology shallow, barely washing over her. "Are you even the one we called 'Warrior of Light,' or are you just using her body?"

Y'shtola should not ask questions that she does not want the answer to. You are Shemhazai and you are not ashamed. Apologetic as you are for your betrayals, no one would rise from the flames that consumed you unaltered; you cannot change who you are.

"Is that why you've done nothing but make excuses, delaying our every action?" She is exasperated at your silence. You absorb it all with stoicism, letting her anger explode, a cathartic release that will allow her to focus on responsibility rather than you. "If you are truly our companion, why didn't you tell us?"

"There are laws." It is a true answer, but one she is not satisfied by. You understand her skepticism, the reason sounds equally empty to your ears.

Before Y'shtola can continue her tirade, Urianger interrupts, open-minded and pragmatic. "If she remains an ally, we should learn aught we can." Even with his desire for knowledge, Urianger does not promote trust, nor does he attempt to calm Y'shtola.

They are right to be upset, but concentrating on anger will only slow them down; you are little more than a distraction. It is regrettable that the truth was revealed right before they attempt an assault on Azys Lla, but also intensely relieving. No longer must you hide; no longer must the burden of your lies drown you. "I offer no excuses." You speak to Y'shtola, before turning to Urianger. "Nor do I offer information."

You promise them nothing. Anything more would prove Igeyorhm's accusations correct, that the Scions are nothing but toys for you to amuse yourself with while you play at being mortal. You offer them only honesty – and honesty demands silence, not empty promises and temptation.

You cannot allow this to continue, the constant demand for answers, the condemnations, the aggression. Time is running out, for them and for you; they do not understand how close Lahabrea's plan is to fruition. "I ask that you judge me by my actions, not by what I've become."

That will do; you've no time to be dawdling when no words will satisfy Y'shtola, to numb the pain she feels.

"Please wait, just a little longer. I will end this - watch over everyone for me."

Everything is over.

You are not a martyr, you've no intentions of failing or being banished, but your body will not last. Soon, the last vestiges of the Warrior of Light will have faded and your relationship with the Scions will be changed forever.

Will they still accept you, knowing what you are - knowing that you must use an innocent as a host to maintain your presence and interact with the mortal realm? Or will they try to study you, probing you apart like they did Lahabrea's dark crystal, claiming it to be for the greater good?

In the Praetorium, Lahabrea mocked you, demanding you choose between doing your duty and saving your friendship. It was only through Hydaelyn's aid that you were able to succeed at both.

You chose duty, then, to resonate, to challenge Lahabrea within Thancred's soul, an act that, with your inexperience, could have torn Thancred apart. You did not hesitate when facing a friend; you do not doubt that, if the situation necessitates it, the Scions will do the same.

So must you choose duty once again - but your duty is not to Elidibus.

It is not an epiphany; you've known what you must do all along, you've simply taken the beaten path, a long, twisting trail before finally rejoining the main road.

You must shatter your fragile peace with Lahabrea, tangled web unraveling only as you both finally admit its existence. You must break your ties with Igeyorhm; you've an eternity to remake them, deeper and more powerful than before, in a relationship more than lust, more than being a tool. They have used you, manipulated you, but that is secondary; they have opened themselves as well, your bond is mutual, neither one-sided nor shallow. Even as you stop them, pursuing the future you wish to create, it is for them that you fight, just as much as for the Scions.

Through your agreement, with Elidibus' command invoking His voice, you no longer are bound by the laws of non-intervention, but Void take the man and his desire for you to eliminate Lahabrea.

Overcoming the pale, overcast sky and pushing through the foggy depths of turmoil, everything becomes clear; you withdraw from the landing - from the Scions, from your friends - knowing where you must go, the muted clouds turning green and yellow, electric and unstable. You thank Igeyorhm for her foresight in leading you to this place.

It is a fine balance, still following Elidibus' command, submitting to His laws, 'stopping' Lahabrea. Your method requires stretching His laws to their limits, twisting your logic as you twist your words to escape the chains that bind, just as Lahabrea similarly uses his loyalty as justification to further his purpose. As mortal laws prevent the wanton murder of citizens in the streets, so do His laws limit you; you cannot attack or kill a neutral individual outside self-defense. The solution to the dilemma comes immediately and from a most unexpected source, or, perhaps, the only source you know; Nabriales provoked Moenbryda – and you - to attack him. He barely had to work at it at all; you do not expect your charge to be so easy, but with proper provocation they _will_ attack you, as they have before.

There is no other way; you enter the reactor with your head held high. You can have no regrets.

"Warrior of Light?" The man has the gall to be surprised at your presence.

"Archbishop." Lahabrea's toys, the lot of them; they even move together, predictable, as if they are of one mind, like a mammet controlled by a puppeteer. For all Igeyorhm mocks you for your interest in the Scions, Lahabrea acts no differently, his efforts entirely focused around mortals.

No matter the abilities Lahabrea has imparted upon the Elezen, you banished Ravana and Bismarck of your own skill, without Her Blessing; they will be defeated the same way. It is liberating, to be without fear. You've nothing left to lose.

You smile; the game begins.

For the lives taken by Ysayle's thousand-year struggle; for Haurchefant; for the Scions; for the poor, broken Warrior of Light who fell, lost to her Goddess – _you will end him_.

One by one they fall, Lahabrea's pets unable to stand against you, slow and predictable. They spout nonsense; justice, light, power, pretentiousness brought upon by their own delusion. As one who knows true light and true darkness, you expose their words as empty. They slide over you, like oil and water, their condemnations barely registering as little more than basal rants in your attempt to keep yourself whole, dodging their attacks and shielding yourself, sustaining your body as long as possible as it breaks down around you, unable to withstand the transfer of such large quantities of aether.

Fall they do, without exception, in screams of anger and disbelief, aether fading into ambiance. So, too, do you fall, the remains of your body breaking apart in unbearable agony, the muscles tearing and spraining, your organs burning, your lungs collapsing, your flesh fading. You withdraw, escaping the prison one final time, its grand farewell complete.

You do not get far in your attempted departure, your return to the Void hindered by a force so subtle and efficient that you did not even sense it. A rigid wall pushes at you from all sides, so tightly that the molding of your aether is severely limited and movement is impossible. The force is intensely claustrophobic and painfully limiting, like a band on your arm that digs in far too tightly, pulsing and tingling, but overwhelming your entire existence.

 _No_. True terror fills you, a pit so deep and black that you almost believe you cannibalize yourself.

"Millennia of planning, wasted." Elidibus voice rings, the first time you've heard anger from him. "What a shame. He has molded you well, feigning obedience while pursuing your own goals."

You do not breathe in this form, but you pulse rapidly in your panic. You cannot even reply to him, trapped so thoroughly that you act only at the man's mercy. You have defied him, challenged his will, as did Lahabrea, it was foolish to believe you would come out unharmed. Elidibus continues, passively aggressive, somehow constricting the object that binds you yet further. "Until Lahabrea is managed, I cannot have another force meddling on his behalf."

You knew the traitor was going to use you; you struggle, futile though it may be, against the strange binds, desperation overcoming logic as you ignore the rest of what Elidibus says. His intent is clear.

Your senses dim. There is nothing but still blackness, with no sense of the world outside; whatever object hosts you could be moving and you wouldn't know of it. Even your thoughts slow, numbed along with the pain, as if you've been heavily drugged and are slowly fading from consciousness.

It does not matter. If Elidibus must seal you like this, you know you've succeeded. You've protected the Scions and your allies are safe; you will make the rest up to Igeyorhm later. The thought of her touch is all that warms you in your empty, frigid prison, pleasant, like the remnants of a forgotten dream.

Utter darkness weighs in, the abyssal depths of which you only previously encountered when you were taken by Zodiark. It embraces and entombs, flooding your remaining senses, washing you away in its wake. There is no more pain; there is no more fear.

For the first time since your death you can truly rest, without the feigned sleep induced passively by nothingness, knowing there is hope for the future.

 _ **Epilogue: Antithesis**_

* * *

"What a prideful creature -" Altima runs a hand over the delicate, floating crystal, flawlessly smooth, with sides rigid and sharp enough to rend flesh at the slightest contact; Altima's blood smears over it, dripping slowly down in long, elegant, streaks. Foreign aether, intensely darker than Altima's own, dances and flows just below its surface; awakened by the taste of blood, it begs for release. "- to challenge Elidibus on your own." Elidibus has not harmed her; Shemhazai remains passive, sealed in perpetual slumber until he decides to free her.

Altima is not one for waiting, not when the others scramble as furiously as rodents at her feet, nibbling away, engorging themselves on Her decay.

Shemhazai is not what Altima expects from Igeyorhm's former servant; absent is Igeyorhm's cool rationality, favoring manipulations over Lahabrea's force. She is barely Igeyorhm's at all, the reason for the forbidden relationship between master and servant clear. Lahabrea's influence saturates deeply; he was the true master, revealed only with Shemhazai's soul bared before all.

Only time will tell if she has inherited his tenacity as well as his arrogance.

Altima recognizes her blunder; if she had not hesitated and glanced away, leaving Shemhazai to her own devices, this would have been prevented. Elidibus, too, has blundered; he has hidden her, secluded in the infinite depths where few dare venture, but not deeply enough.

Now Shemhazai is hers, an invaluable ally, Altima's blunder mendable.

"I know you can hear me, dear Shemhazai. I cannot allow you to rest just yet, there is much work to be done." The crystal cracks under Altima's sticky, blood-stained fingers, unable to withstand the overwhelming pressure from within and without. "We will bring about the change the others are incapable of."


	15. Lahabrea: Discord

Summary: _Sequel to Fate. The Warrior of Light saves Lahabrea in the Aetherochemical Research Facility, but his recovery takes longer than expected and he is unable to reform on his own._

 _Lahabrea is forced to passively experience the Warrior's routine, unamused by the Warrior's propensity towards kindness and tolerance to absolutely everyone who is not him._

Note: I promised a reader crack-y Lahabrea cuddling and I'm finally delivering. A bit late, but better than never!

Be aware that this is a bit crack-y, so it's not meant to be taken seriously.

 _ **Discord**_

* * *

The tales parents tell children of so-called heroes are of eternal happiness, of peace and safety, of happily ever after when the lord saves his lady. More relevant to your tale, adolescents hear extravagant fantasies of the adventurers who spend their days endlessly wandering in search of new treasure, seeing sights that none other will ever witness, sometimes even discovering the realm of the Gods themselves.

Parents are truly cruel beings; _happily ever after_ is a fable conjured up by romantics who do not understand the consequences of two willful individuals being required to share a single soul space. It has not even been a week with your soulmate and you are thoroughly convinced that 'happily ever after' is terribly overrated; knowing your lover's every thought is not a dream, but a nightmare.

Or perhaps Lahabrea's disdain is flooding through you once again, influencing your perceptions; you can never be quite sure.

"She has you fetching materials."

Lahabrea is sour, speaking to you silently in your mind, interjecting into your musing. He is never the most pleasant of creatures, but early in the morning, after you rise from bed and turn your attentions away from him and onto your companions, his demeanor shifts. His emotions darken from muted affection and sink deeply into perpetual annoyance, influencing you both.

"You are running menial errands that are well within the mortal's capabilities." Every sun it is this same argument; no matter who you aid, he is never satisfied. He would sooner have you assist no one at all, seemingly baffled by your habits. "Do you not know how to tell them off?"

"Tataru is my friend. I don't mind helping." You reply to him with an offhand thought, focused on the merchant's wares. It's impossible to completely ignore Lahabrea, no more than you can ignore a persistent, nagging impulse that you're forgetting something, but you get as close as you can, smiling to the merchant as you point to the cloth Tataru seeks.

"Should the _Warrior of Light_ be relegated to retrieving cloth from a merchant because a 'friend' needs to mend her shirt?"

Lahabrea is sulking. You did not understand his strange antagonism with a subtle withdrawal when he first expressed it, but now you recognize it for what it is. Lahabrea is unused to dismissal; you hear his words but do not heed them, your attentions focused elsewhere.

"The Slayer of Gods has more important responsibilities than being a tool of convenience."

He is right; perhaps you do have more important responsibilities, but when fetching something from the market is the most dangerous and remarkable task assigned to you, it is a good day.

* * *

"I was unaware that mortal traditions consider a stranger demanding a respected warrior accompany them into the bowels of an oversized, twisted God as they search for _treasure_ to be acceptable behavior."

"This is my responsibility." You appreciate Lahabrea's worry and strange shows of affection, no matter how vehemently he denies them, but you cannot turn away, not when so much is at stake. The mechanical primal is unlike anything you've ever seen, even from the Allagan.

"That is always your excuse." Lahabrea has been particularly irritated by your actions of late, letting you know how thoroughly he disapproves of putting mortals before yourself. "Maybe if that girl focused less on her scars and more on the enemies before her she would not need you to swaddle her."

He lashes out at the easiest target, knowing full well you agree with him. It is a final effort to dissuade you from what he believes to be utter foolishness.

"This is my duty." You repeat. You are the Warrior of Light, tasked to protect Hydaelyn; there is no one else in Eorzea who can fulfill your purpose. You have long since accepted your role as their weapon.

You regret the thought as soon as it forms; it is not as if Lahabrea needs another reason to despise your Goddess.

* * *

"Do you not wonder –"

"No." Whatever Lahabrea's fascination with Nidhogg's fusion is, his interest cannot be condoned.

"– are they of one mind or two?"

Despite your caution, his words bring you pause, your attention focused inward at the curious query; a dragon and one of the spoken races physically merging is fantastical enough, but the foreign structure of their mind and is not something you've considered. You are loath to admit that his musing is beneficial; the state of their soul must be learned if you've any hope of saving Estinien. If they are as you and Lahabrea, separating them entirely is an impossibility.

"What would happen, if we resonated with him?" Lahabrea continues once your attention is on him, testing your knowledge rather than truly pondering. Resonating with a dragon so completely absorbed by his madness that he cannot tell a millennia from a moon is not particularly appealing, even with Lahabrea anchoring and buffering you; Lahabrea's interest in Estinien's and Nidhogg's mutated soul space is unhealthy enough without the dragon's insanity.

He senses your anxiety, but it doesn't deter him. "How else do you hope to free your companion? Attack the dragon until his scales are shredded, rending his flesh until the unharmed mortal is revealed within his core?"

The image Lahabrea evokes is reminiscent of a holiday sweet, as you bite through a crispy outer layer to reach a soft, sweet center.

"I'll consider it." You relent in amusement, and Lahabrea's warmth spreads through you, satisfied and victorious, your mood raised vibrantly for the hours to come.

* * *

"Elidibus." He says nothing else of the intruders. You could search his memories for knowledge of these 'Warriors of Darkness' if you were of mind to, but the distaste in his voice is telling enough.

There is only one Ascian Lahabrea permits to meddle in your affairs – and it is not Elidibus.

* * *

It is clear to all with eyes that Artoriel is breaking.

Count Fortemps lavishes praise on Aymeric and the fallen Haurchefant, unintentionally belittling his trueborn sons. Lahabrea sees it as clearly as you, the awkward emotions broiling from within, the Elezen unstable and distressed. The Ascian runs your shared aether over him with the dangerous curiosity of a hawk scanning an open field, dipping into crevices, testing for weaknesses, learning the flow of his mind. You know what he intends, putting a stop to it and dragging him back by force.

"Not him." You can ask nothing more; requesting Lahabrea limit his choice of hosts is more than what is reasonable when those suitably weak of mind are rare enough without your interference.

Lahabrea seems to be in a state of perpetual antagonism while you interact with your companions, but he is particularly angered at your request. His irritation seeps through you, tainting your mood so completely that damming the negativity is impossible. Your responses to your friends' queries are clipped and short, so blatant that even Alphinaud recognizes the futility of attempting conversation, keeping his distance until whatever ails you fades.

"Soon I will be strong enough to take a host and neither of us will be required to endure this farce any longer."

He is hostile, but the emotions he provokes from you are equally powerful; you are determined to keep the men who sheltered you safe. Internal debate is impossible, as both of you are aware; ideals of friendship, right, and wrong are too thoroughly ingrained within you that you will not bend, no more than the man who shares the other half of your soul will submit to you.

Eventually, deep into the night, after hours accompanied by nothing but silence worthy of an ancient corpse, Lahabrea relents. He will continue his search for a host, but not among your friends.

You love him all the more for it.

* * *

Empty. You are empty, cold, and quiet, an integral part of your soul missing, vanished and stolen from you in the dead of night. Even if this was your will – both of your wills – you were not expecting Lahabrea's absence to penetrate so deeply through you.

Even unable to hear his thoughts, you know the weight, or lack thereof, rests just as heavily on Lahabrea; it is a return to incompletion, one becoming two, mutual, necessary rejection of your shared fate.

You are too different; if nothing else, your union has shown that you are both too willful and independent to permanently become one in mind and soul so soon.

Only the last vestiges of your connection remain, permanent ties that bind more tightly than all others, a simple hum rather than a demanding roar. It is not enough, after so long together it is almost impossible to be apart. He pulls you into him, all soft robe and hard muscle, both gentle and strong in his command, as if proximity will somehow deepen your connection.

You breathe in sync, near enough that anything but unity is uncomfortable, his arms encircling your back. He touches you, with his body and his aether, just barely dipping below the surface, until you can no longer distinguish between where you end and he begins, as close to another as you can be without merging, the distinct, longing emptiness finally dulled.

He has no intention of releasing you, holding tightly, seeking to possess you eternally; if you cannot be of one mind, then one linked body will suffice. If you were averse to his intense and overbearing affections, you would never have saved him, housing him within you for so long.

You are not friends, you are not allies, you can barely even call yourself companions; there are times when you truly cannot stand each other. You are not a tool of convenience, not a weapon to be wielded at the strongest foe, not to Lahabrea. He is truer to you than anyone; there are no lies, no deceptions, and no empty flattery.

This is not some idyllic fantasy with 'happily ever after.' Soon, Lahabrea will once again go his own way and you yours, goals and dreams impossible to align until you are both willing to bend - but not now; now is all you have and neither of you have any intention of wasting any of it.


	16. Elidibus: Bond

Summary: _The Warrior of Light and Elidibus' relationship is stagnating. Communication and affection are the keys to revitalization. Plotless, cuddly fluff. Takes place at an unspecified time during 2.X._

 _ **Bond**_

* * *

If you were in the habit of emulating Thancred, you would describe the air as magical. It is, quite truly, magical; Mor Dhona's thick, violet aether layers so heavily upon the ground and through the air that it's sticky, but in this place, on a secluded hill high above the wreckage of the Agrius, untouched by intrusive aether, it is the still, placid atmosphere, so silent that not even the sound of an insect's cry can be heard, the gentle chill, cool but not cold enough to freeze, and the shockingly bright sky, constellations clear even to those who do not bother learning them, that make this night truly idyllic.

It comes as no surprise that Elidibus recognizes and utilizes the most appealing setting for romance, but he woos you as much with his knowledge as his actions. The Emissary shares what little he has, but you favor his most mundane treasures: private vistas of unparalleled beauty where you both can be alone, temporarily free of the restrictions and responsibilities that bind you.

No different from any other outing, Elidibus remains passive **,** keeping his distance even while he stands directly by your side, illuminated completely by the starlight, lacking a shadow to darken his features. There are no touches, no kisses, not so much as an accidental brush against your clothes or the feel of his breath on your neck.

These quiet excursions are never uncomfortable - there are no awkward silences and the troubles of the world seem to fade away, as small as the creatures far below you - but you've little to give him in return, save companionship. He cares nothing for wealth or any mortal trinkets and the secrets you know are in the hostile depths of dungeons, not immersed in the beauty of the outdoors. Yet still he remains with you, steadfast and silent, no matter your troubles, offering anything you need or desire without protest.

You cannot even return his gestures of acceptance; Elidibus rarely complains, stating that responsibility demands tolerance, and when he admits to being troubled, he is understandably limited in the knowledge he can share with you.

It is almost as if you are an idol, an object of one-sided worship. If this aloofness is one of Elidibus' quirks, or if it a trait of Ascian relationships, you are uncertain, but the lack of balance is not what you hoped for when you both admitted your interest and committed to furthering your relationship.

"Your lavish your attentions on me and seek nothing in return. What of your will?" You hesitantly shatter the serenity, vocalizing your quandary.

"My desires are irrelevant, I exist only to serve." You are well aware; Elidibus makes constant mention of it. The Emissary claims he embodies His flesh, exists only to serve His will, as you do to Hers, yet Elidibus often acts in seeming contradictions, independent of the God his life belongs to.

"You are still an individual." If he was not, he would not be here; you are no different. "You asked to learn the soul beyond the flesh of the Warrior of Light -" You repeat his request; it is one of the fondest memories you share with him, the initial admission of interest, the relief that he, too, feels the same way, the mutual desire for more, with words breathy and barely above silence, as if worried another would overhear. The anxiety and shame you once felt at courting an Ascian have now faded, but Elidibus retains his foreign, overbearing formality; you've become accustomed to it, associating the manner of speech and actions specifically with him, rapidly learning to translate the nuances that the Echo does not aid you with. "- is it so wrong that I wish the same of you?"

Perhaps it is a bold request, but Elidibus does not seem taken aback. He barely seems to react at all. You know him better than that; his uncertainty shows, lacking an immediate response.

"If you are certain." He finally murmurs, uncharacteristically tense now that you've limited his control over the excursion.

You nod firmly, his words confirming your belief that something is off. No matter his trouble, be it lack of interest, his God, or something you've done, you will hear it; even if only once, you want to be as good of a partner to him as he is to you.

"You constantly elude me, leaving immediately when our business has concluded." The admission is unexpected; somehow you've pushed him away. Elidibus elaborates, scolding without subtlety. "I know you, but I've not been permitted to _learn_ you. I would further our bond."

He takes a step towards you, closer to you than he has ever been, and looks down, pointedly staring at your hands.

All at once you understand the alarming admission. Elidibus never touches you; you've gotten to know each other and nothing more. It is easy to assume disinterest with the distance he imposes upon you; he has not asked, but nor have you offered. Perhaps this entire time he has been revealing his attraction and you've been blind to it, the longing clear to an Ascian but obscured to you by a thick cultural barrier you've both worked diligently to overcome.

You smile, relieved that your fears are unfounded; now that you know, the ailment can be remedied. "You need not ask. I thought you lacked interest." You hold your palms out to him in a symbolic offering.

Cautiously he raises a hand to meet yours, resting it passively atop the exposed palm, the soft touch releasing a vibrant, shocking, almost painful burst into you that you are unsure truly exists at all. On instinct, you pull away, rubbing the area of contact. It is not red, nor does there seem to be any pain; the neutral expression Elidibus wears tells you nothing of if he felt it as well, but your aversion speaks more to him than words ever can.

That will not do; you cannot have him believing you do not want to continue, no matter the fantasies of pain that paint themselves in your head. Before the rift can grow, you quickly grasp at him, as he did you, fully enveloping a single hand in both of yours, running your thumbs over his wrist; the energy remains, no less excited than before, but no longer painful, dancing tensely between you like your instincts the moment before a fierce battle, tingling, overwhelming, finding its way up your arm, almost as if searching for something.

It is all the acceptance Elidibus needs, the neutral expression fading as he gifts you with a slight, true smile, far rarer than yours, no longer hiding completely behind the mask of Emissary.

Finally released from his binds, Elidibus removes his hand, drawing his fingers up your arms with all the viscosity of a slime, letting his touch know as his sight does, exploring you with the last vestiges of restraint he has, before resting his arms on your shoulders and around your neck, feeling the rise and fall of your body with each breath, close, but just far enough that you cannot smell him, cannot feel him, cannot truly _know_ him.

The Emissary's desires are as clear as a bright, sunny morning; Elidibus wants so very badly to continue, to let his hands roam bare flesh, but he's held back, hesitant to cast off what little of his control remains.

He is frustrating, in his overt caution; though Elidibus may criticize you for your lack of communication, he, too, falls into the same trap, sending unspoken complex, contradictory messages that are only barely interpretable. You curse him, silently, your body wanting his touch as much as Elidibus does, the refusal to take the next step almost akin to torture.

There is but a single solution – the best one.

You step close, right between his arms, so that he has no choice but to lose his restraint, to shed his caution in the wind. Enveloping him before he can think to resist, you pull his stiff body close; if he wants you to be forward, you will not disappoint him.

Elidibus is warm. No matter what he claims his flesh to be, a creation of your expectations, or a generic form of convenience made for interaction with mortals, it feels true enough, no different from any other mortal body, solid and firm in your arms. It _is_ convenient, to be certain, giving you a place to rest your head as he finally, slowly, so very slowly, brings his arms around you as well, enveloping you in the sharp, swift energy that flows beneath the surface, as calming and composed as Elidibus himself.

He releases a long breath, but it is not one of relief.

"Allow me this selfishness, just once." He seems almost ashamed that he enjoys holding you as much as he does. This close, the differences between you are all the more evident; Elidibus hesitates, recognizing the disparities as quickly as you do - or, perhaps, he has always known, choosing instead to ignore them until faced with their immediate presence.

"It is not selfishness to enjoy my company." You try to console him, pointless though it may be. Until he overcomes the restrictions of his position, Elidibus will always remain doubtful and uncertain. As he has waited patiently for you to allow him this moment, so, too, will you wait, no matter how long it takes him.

"I'm not going to let go." He murmurs quietly, as a warning. True to his word, he pulls you in tighter; he's not as strong as you – he has no reason to be – but it's more than enough to steal your breath away.

You don't want him to; let the world churn in chaos around you, you will remain in the storm's eye with Elidibus, steadfast and indomitable. There is no light or dark in this place, no Gods or Goddesses; perhaps Elidibus is correct, you surrender to the ultimate selfishness, turning your back on what should be done – but right here, like this, you are hard pressed to care beyond a stray thought.

You draw a hand in close, running a finger over his lips, soft and dry, parched from the cool wind, tracing the outline of his mask, warm and thick, flexible yet unmoving, hesitating only as you reach its corners, before leaving it in place. He has already exceeded his boundaries today, you must continue respecting his privacy, tempting as revealing his features may be.

He returns the motion, fingers stroking your face with touches far more delicate than yours, almost shy. He cannot touch you, not truly, with the cloth – material of unknown origin, not quite leather, but too strong to be any familiar cloth, inlaid with a material not-quite stone and almost crystalline - that covers his hands, but it seems to satisfy him.

Perhaps you are a romantic at heart, but as you touch his face, your eyes are drawn to his dry lips, wanting to moisten them with a first kiss on a scenic vista in the moonlight, high above the troubles and interferences of mortality, surrounded by perpetual stillness. There is no setting more worthy of one of Thancred's legends– a secretive tale, only for you and Elidibus to share. It's a forbidden, irresistible temptation, the final touch to secure the bond you mutually seek.

If there is any saint who can resist the allure, it is not you. There is no finesse in your action, but nor is there carnal desire. It is as controlled an action as lust can be, bringing your lips onto his.

His body stiffens instinctively, the earlier awkward rigidity returning, but it loosens as soon as understanding dawns. He was not expecting this, but he is not averse – it is something that is fully within his power to learn, to master, to control. He opens his mouth to greet yours.

It is not what you expect a perfect kiss would be; those strange, erratic, almost painful, flowing energies return, no longer pushing you away, but drawing you in, like a whirlpool, deeper and more chaotic, disorienting you, making it impossible to leave, even if you wanted to. The kiss is gentle, but not skilled, Elidibus seemingly has little experience in the arts of mortal lovemaking, testing the unknown waters with uncertainty, learning how to instigate a response, his tongue flicking over the roof of your mouth and licking your lips, tasting and learning as he emulates your guidance, seeking to please you more than looking to be pleased.

Surely, he knows how it is done. Elidibus undoubtedly has taken countless hosts over the span of millennia, able to read their memories at will, perhaps he has even used such knowledge on a lover in the past to aid his negotiations. Yet only with you is he honest, learning from experience and not foreign memories, loosening his control in order further your mutual bond, no longer some one-sided dance of unspoken desire.

You take your first shared breath when he finally lifts his mouth from yours, dizzying and relieving, unsure if you want more but desperately wishing to continue teaching. You will learn Elidibus' ways, as well, likely equally uncomfortably, experiencing them with all the curiosity and fervor of a small child.

Elidibus does not give you a chance to consider further. This time, confidence secured, it is his kiss, his control, his taste, his lesson. He learns quickly indeed, your breaths heavy against his, heart pounding as you clutch the robes on his back; there is nothing but Elidibus, no more doubts, no more fears, your mind a blank, white canvas – everything is simple, everything is utterly, truly, overwhelmingly right.


	17. Lahabrea: Mammeteer

Summary: _Omnicrafting WoL. The Warrior of Light will never stop missing him. Tragedy, post-3.0 MSQ._

 ** _Mammeteer_**

* * *

The materials took more than two turns of the moon to procure; those that had to be purchased took even longer - priceless crystalline treasures, rare imported skins from creatures that will never set foot on Eorzea, and ancient cogs, smoothed with obscure alchemical lubricant so efficient and lasting that even legendary Goldsmiths would be put to shame by the silent, natural fluidity of their rotation.

The boots are tiny enough that you can only fit a single finger into each, but you put as much care into their creation as you would any shoe fit for adventuring, the leather supple and strong. They must be sturdy if they are to be used to follow you over snow, sky, and sea, through the vast wildernesses that make up Eorzea.

The cloth was most easily sheared from Darklight, material soft, smooth, and thick enough to emulate the aether-based resilience of Lahabrea's robes.

Fresh leather does not hold red dye well, you've learned, colors too bright or too dark; the dyeing was a continual process, one that necessitated you find a pigment bright yet dark and deep enough to match his mask. You settled on one shade off, fearful that more dye would have compromised the material.

A fragile heart of the murkiest, darkest crystal you could find lies in its breast – pulsing with the gentle heat of fire, not the unpredictability of the dark – strong enough to power its form for as long as necessary, supposing you can properly supply it with your aether.

The gloves were the most difficult endeavor. Let no spoiled noble speak ill of the doll makers, of the crafters who inlay the smallest details of stone and jewel in cloth, or the creators of the most exquisite and intricate buttons on elegant dresses, for even the deftest of hands make mistakes, the proper balance almost impossible to obtain despite constant practice. Even having broken countless sheets of high quality adamantite in your attempt to sand down the claws, ornaments, and rivets thinly enough, delicate and fit to scale, you remain uncertain they are correct, but you will get no better from a creation of your flawed memory.

Lahabrea scolds you for your inadequacies, accepting nothing but the best. You _are_ the best, you tell the fading echo of his voice in your head, you are not going to summon an Ascian just so you can ascertain the pattern on their gloves and robes.

Deny him as you may, Lahabrea's likeness persistently demands accuracy; you will doubtless encounter an Ascian soon enough, you will note any necessary changes when the opportunity presents itself.

Lahabrea is easy to control, to manipulate with even the smallest injection of your aether - so very unlike the man its likeness emulates. Its arms cross over its chest in annoyance as you barter in the market, even the gentlest winds tugging at its robe, mask obscuring its features as its shoulders shake in silent laughter, amused by pathetic displays from fragile mortals; small as it is, Lahabrea remains as immortal and eternal as any true Ascian - so long as you stay by its side.

When you're alone, sitting on your bed in the lonely peace of your room, you pick the creation up, lowering its hood and placing its mask on the bedstand as you see to its needs, keeping its parts oiled, its aether core supplied. It is soft and warm, just like Lahabrea, with powerful energy cycling through its cogs, a vain attempt at artificial life. You lift the tiny object to your chest, burying your cheek against its soft hair, nuzzling it, letting it envelop your senses, so that it drowns out all of Hydaelyn that surrounds you.

It does not smell of Lahabrea. He is gone, the only remnants of his existence floating through you, eternally tainting your aether; no creation, no matter the time and love put into it, will return him.

The slight arms encircle your wrist, returning the embrace, holding you as closely and tightly as they can, just as Lahabrea used to. Unable to reach around you entirely, its claws dig into your flesh so hard that they draw blood, the black leather stained crimson. You barely even feel it until the stream drips down over your palms.

You are a weak fool, Lahabrea whispers, your focus on the past hinders when only the present remains relevant.

You clutch the tiny object harder, back pressing against the wall, curling around the Ascian as tightly as you can without damaging it.

"You say that so easily." You whisper to the small Lahabrea, forever short of perfection.

He does not respond; the dried blood remains covering your hands, sticky and impossible to ignore, as eternal as your silent companion.


	18. Nabriales: Confessions

Summary: _The Warrior of Light confesses, leading to an Ascian-styled, uncomfortable first time. A bittersweet romance that takes place around 2.4._

Note: Quite a while ago, one of the first requests given to me was a 'how it happened' with Nabriales and the WoL. I've not done this yet, but I think I've found a nice balance here. I wanted to contrast Elidibus and Nabriales in ficlets with slightly similar scenarios, while also trying to expand on Nabriales and why such a man might be interested in your character.

This isn't going to be everyone's thing; there's a lot of abstract description and intentional tonal changes in the narrative. However, I hope everyone can enjoy it for what it is.

 ** _Confessions_**

* * *

When you are with him, you are only an adventurer.

It is your responsibility to delve into collapsed mines without a fragile songbird, heedless of the noxious fumes. You've been a mercenary and you've slain Gods; were it asked of you, you would step into a portal to the abyssal void without knowing if there is a platform to catch you on the other side.

As such, you were absolutely certain you were prepared for any response your unpredictable partner could give your confession, a risk that took more than a week of enduring Moenbryda's impassioned speeches about why you shouldn't hesitate when it comes to love to finally act upon.

"I'm aware."

You were wrong.

Non-committal and nonchalant, Nabriales does not deny you, but it is a flat response, barely more than an indication of acknowledgement. Rejection is tolerable, perhaps not comfortably, but it is possible. Acceptance is a forlorn hope, a dream only the most foolish would succumb to; there are too many problems, this entire relationship is a child's delusion, requiring you to close your eyes to the vast differences between your two peoples. It is the neutrality, silence, and lack of change in his demeanor that set you on edge.

In the tenseness that follows his simple statement, you feel a furthered kinship with Moenbryda, her vibrant, powerful affections ignored, though clearly not unreturned.

"I see." You force your response to contain equal neutrality, feigning apathy and withdrawing into defensive stoicism. You've heard the tales - a star-crossed lover confesses to a close friend, but the friend does not reciprocate. Their relationships are never the same.

Time passes with agonizing lethargy; the night feels too hot, you'd sweat even wearing the coolest of clothes, yet there is an unmistakable chill to the breeze, cool air stifling your lungs, rather than clearing them. Your heart pounds in your ears so heavily that your breaths can't be heard; Nabriales' breaths are as obvious as yours, his chest expanding and deflating under loose robes, the normally pleasant distraction turned distinctly unpleasant, a feature that will never be yours to touch or rest against.

You should not be here. Reality bares its bloody teeth in face of the fantasies you've conjured. You have just confessed to an Ascian, a creature not even of the Spoken races. The Paragons barely exist outside of legend; impossible for those without the Echo to see, when they do appear, it is not even in their true form, their existence as incomprehensible as the plane they reside within. Nabriales is an immortal, ageless entity that has witnessed the darkest secrets of the universe; even had he accepted you, it would end in nothing but pain, for your life is no more than a blink of an eye compared to his. You are nothing but a curious child tasting a new flavor, desiring a food that is far too alien, too strongly spiced, for you to enjoy.

You cannot even spend time with him, your only opportunities are almost juvenile, secret rendezvous in the depths of the night, in fear that you will be caught - or risk being seen as mad by an onlooker when you appear to speak to nothing but air.

The fears that you would not confess to Moenbryda return, plaguing you with greater ill than ever before. He is your enemy. Nabriales does not care about your people or your friends - he possibly does not even care for you. Judging by his reaction, you are little more than a distraction, an amusement to pass time until his goal is furthered, whatever and whenever that may be. So long as you remain under Hydaelyn, he will not even share the purpose his life is devoted to.

You're lost, well and truly lost, that much is certain. You care far too much; you twist your mind into knots, justifying your emotions, hoping beyond all hope that there is some way to be together, paying no heed to the stars that separate you.

"You fuss too much." He is on you before you can blink, like a Bandersnatch onto a wounded chocobo, pushing his body to yours with such ferocity that his teeth rend the flesh of your lower lip. The sharp pain makes you flinch; blood oozes over your tongue, spreading to his mouth from yours, covering your lips only for a moment before Nabriales sucks it away, the process starting anew.

The Ascian does not care for something so mundane as kissing; Nabriales does not permit movement, pulling you closer until the air is drawn from your lungs, as if he seeks to consume you, his tongue forcing itself over yours in his attempt to take you in his strange way, searching your insides with the intent to devour.

Only dreams can provide this dizzy euphoria; pain and pleasure, worry and relief, fear and confidence collide, impossible to distinguish, all a part of you in the erratic emotions that follow Nabriales' acceptance. Your flurried thoughts are both slurred and chaotic, rapidly considering, but making no sense of the situation; in your distraction, you can only concentrate on the feelings - blissful, wonderful, _feelings_.

"So do you." Breathy and irrational words form your delayed reply, the only ones you can think of. How silly that he criticizes your fussing, all he does is fuss about the limitations forced upon him and the incompetence of the others.

Nabriales eliminates all further potential speech and thought by grasping at you with strong, clingy hands – far stronger than his build implies - around your waist and pushing your face into his, almost sobering in his forcefulness, blood smearing onto his features as he bites you, pain pulsing in time with your accelerated heartbeat. He searches over your flesh, seeking only to possess, his touch like sharp pinches or a harsh massage on a tight muscle. It is a pleasant, relieving pain, a pain like the soreness after exercise or the exhaustion after a tense battle, the pain that reminds you that you're alive, that sends hot chills of excitement coursing to the tips of your toes.

"Mortal forms remain dissatisfying." His body speaks more than words; there is little pleasure in this for him. Nabriales' breaths are not the rapid, shallow exhales of lust, matching your pants against him, but slow and deep, calm and rational. If there is any satisfaction or goal to his touch, it is from making a claim, not from enjoyment of kisses and the feel of bare flesh.

Despite the indifference, he clearly has no intention of releasing you. Contradicting his words, the Ascian pushes his mouth onto yours again, this time with uncharacteristic subtlety.

Your vision swims in shade, a deep purple bordering on black, blurred like Mor Dhona's aether in the depths of the night when illuminated only by the faintest moonlight, twisting around you, dominating your aether sense, blinding in its intensity. Movement is impossible, your body numbed with a familiar-yet-foreign, incapacitating and all-encompassing sensation.

The aether penetrates your skin, clinging as tightly as Nabriales' fingers, as if it seeks to absorb you, eliminating all outside influences, draining your ability to struggle. The invasive force digs deeply, not directly painful, but tightly and stiffly, flowing throughout, intrinsically tainting your soul, darkness shattering even the most enduring fragments of light; like ink dripped into still water, it flows, uncomfortable, disparate, distinctly wrong.

Comprehension is impossible; it is terrifying, as if your identity risks being engulfed by the stronger force. The world warps around you, twisting your innards until up is down, until inside is out, until your stomach rolls like when you look down to the ground from an airship mid-flight, until you can feel nothing at all and you are surrounded only by emptiness.

Time stops; blinded completely by the darkness, the void could last but a second or an eternity and you could not discern any difference – or perhaps there is no difference in this place, time nothing but a creation of mortal limitation. You cannot withstand this, it is too much - too little - too strong. Even the dread is numbed; you are helpless, like water too tainted with poison to purify, but try you do, futilely attempting to dam the flow, hoping the Ascian will somehow understand your discomfort.

You barely recognize when Nabriales withdraws. He seeps from you like the water from the sand until only the barest traces remain, pooling passively, waiting to be disturbed, like muck at the bottom of a pond, but otherwise exerting no influence; his presence no longer clouds your mind, allowing the basest of your senses to return, little more than an acknowledgment of your continued existence, the first rational, logical understanding of the darkness that is Nabriales.

You've not moved, the world never truly faded; Nabriales remains close, his forehead resting against yours, teeth still teasing at your bleeding lip, each breath warming your face. Temporarily sedated and relaxed, the Ascian, too, must recover from the draining, unifying event.

With the veil lifted, the method used in his venture becomes clear, though his purpose remains shrouded. Dizzying and incapacitating, touching your very essence to another – there is no doubt that it was a foreign form of resonation, an unfamiliar Ascian-induced command of the Echo, one that demanded you respond in kind, far stronger and more controlled than your mostly passive and incidental use of the Gift.

"Was that not your will?" Nabriales is annoyed by your rejection, he makes no effort to conceal it, but he does not move away, his breaths harsh on your face, his arms holding you painfully, fingers digging into flesh until it throbs.

The kisses, the affection, they were undeniably your will, but the darkness is abhorrent – you are of the light, you are Her servant, fighting the darkness is your purpose. You cannot open your heart and accept such a naturally antagonistic element to your existence any more than you can assimilate a virus. As you do not understand his actions, so, too, does the Ascian lack an understanding of yours, his bafflement obvious as he continues. "We were as one."

He is not wrong, as disconcerting as it is. Prominent throughout your senses, his aether drowned all else out until you were engulfed entirely. There is no truer sense of oneness than an intensely focused, powerful touch that eliminates all distractions; even a lover's embrace is dull and distant in comparison, but it is too much – too strong. His presence offers nothing but a complete void, nothingness congregating into still silence of the type no mortal can comprehend. Nabriales' very existence unknowable, yet you must try; without accepting all of him, you will never obtain the relationship you desire.

"Can you do it a bit more slowly?" If there is to be any hope of a future between you, both of you must bend. No matter how uncomfortable, you must meet in the middle.

Nabriales releases an annoyed breath; you did not expect the request to irritate him further, but it clearly does, his jaw tensing against your cheek. The Ascian is an enigma; there are times you are certain you know him, his moods predictable, and other times he is a stranger, well and truly embodying the unpredictability of the chaos he serves.

His annoyance falters as quickly as it rises, his thoughts impossible to comprehend. You do not need to - his actions speak to you more strongly than any words and the dizziness returns, the blurring of your sight, the loss of control over your body - it is the Echo you know, the one you are familiar with.

Nabriales' presence is not immediately clear, but you are aware that he controls your use of the Echo, guiding with unseen hands, slowly manipulating the barriers around you to allow him entry to the most private and delicate part of your soul. It is resonation, but more; there are no visions of the past and future, no knowledge to be gleaned, it is a simple, primal touch, steadily becoming stronger, like the pressure of the water the deeper you dive, one that contracts only as Nabriales aids in lowering the shield that stabilizes you.

By all rights, you should be panicking, but curiosity overwhelms your fear, confidence instilled by trust in Nabriales, learning, seeing, feeling what you are truly capable of with this Gift. Alarming and almost abhorrent, you easily strip away your natural defenses; unintentionally you do the same to others when you view their memories, entering their minds against their will, no differently than how an Ascian invades a host.

You've no time to contemplate; the path is open, the dam is clear, Nabriales soaks into your soul - not just your mind, not just your aether, deeper, more basal, Even restraining himself, the dam easily breaks away and the remaining barrier around your mind shatters, exploding through in a flooding stream. There is nothing holding him back - holding you back - both of your bare and exposed, in the most simple of states.

There is only Nabriales.

It is raw and primordial. The Scions often tease you for your unrelenting stoicism, but if they could feel you now, erratic, calm, alive, unliving, confident, yet terrified, they would know otherwise. It is a free-flowing seemingly endless energy, Nabriales manipulating an internal aether reserve that is impossible to access outside of desperation. His very existence alters yours, until you are no longer you, until he is no longer Nabriales, the powerful force that was once terrifying within you now understandable, the void no longer a void, but still little more than an incomprehensible mass of energy and emotion.

This is how is should be; this is what he intended, not fear, not emptiness - you should never have doubted him.

The tiniest ray of light taints his darkness, the most minuscule, insignificant raindrop in a storm somehow manipulating the downpour around it - or perhaps it is the most fragile shadow that swallows the light. You're not certain anymore, your boundaries undefinable. Unbidden, you draw upon fresh memories - nay, not entirely memories nor thoughts, but also knowledge, passed from one to another, chaotically blending into an endless stream until the differences are indecipherable.

Fragile, fleeting creatures that they are, he holds only indifference towards Her ephemeral, self-destructive children, a true apathy, absolute emptiness; they are meaningless, unworthy of even the basest annoyance or simplest care. All must be returned to Him; only then will there be value to their existence.

The world is dull, colorless. Empty -

Existence is irrelevant. Even his life is not his own, belonging utterly to his master, an avatar with no further purpose –

-No longer; the color is blinding.

Intense discomfort fills you - him – trailed by equally powerful hesitation and immediate repulsed rejection of the inevitable.

He denies you; even now, the depths of his mind refuse to accept this as any more than a passing interest with an amusing pet, yet fiercely contradicting the stubborn rejection, he opens himself more, allowing you to penetrate deeper and deeper, secrets bared, all memories yours, the pet equal, not subservient.

Hydaelyn's spawn are _nothing_ \- Nabriales knows nothingness better than anyone – this one is _not_ something -

Anger, annoyance, loyalty, dedication, satisfaction, bitterness, disappointment, these are expected and known - _this_ is unfamiliar, an alien, unwanted, mortal desire. Mutated possession, that's all it is, he knowingly deludes himself.

The segregating fissure becomes shallow, the water from your dam filling it with sediment and debris. It barely remains a chasm, as if you - and only you – have bridged the gap, the void no longer an impenetrable fortress.

There is no more emptiness, no more numbness, no more grey, no more light, and no more darkness. . Nothing as ever been so clear; nothing has even been so confusing; you can hear, you can feel, you can think.

Nabriales lied. You were not as one before; he was smothering you, stifling you, absorbing you, whilst denying you equal access. There remains much he does not wish to share, but Nabriales is rash; your confession instigated a maelstrom of irrational emotion within that compelled him into immediate action. Even while he simultaneously accepts and denies you, his acceptance is controlled by calculating impulse, dominating all thoughts of rejection. No matter how fervent his denial, he would have no other way.

You should be frightened, you should be ashamed, you should be worried – this is more than you ever dreamed – this is more than a distraction, more than casual lovemaking. This is not fleeting interest, but permanency, there will be no one else; you both risk losing yourselves, diluting your determination while pursuing a goal that can end only in tragedy.

All of it is inconsequential. With Nabriales influencing you, there is only liberation, gifting you with a freedom you had almost forgotten possible, empty, devoid of binding responsibility towards all save him and your master. Void take your fussing, _this_ is what you want. You will manage the difficulties when they arise, as any adventurer would.

Your senses return to the taste of blood on your lips, sticky and dried, the sight of purple, black, and blond, the smell of Nabriales, and a wrongness which stings with such intensity that even the Ascian's remaining influence cannot dispel it. You do not rest together, there is no post-coital bliss, no longing for further touch; no words or actions are necessary, as all of you has been bared for him to see. You have all you will ever need.

He leaves, as he always does, when the sun begins its cycle through the sky, the light of the dawn tinting his hair, the same as it would any mortal's. As you always do, you will return when the moon rises, darkness shrouding your features just enough so that he may ignore your status as Warrior of Light, in order to meet with him once again.

You cannot request more, nor can he.

For now, it is just enough.

* * *

To Tonberry: Thank you very much! I deeply appreciate any comments. Unfortunately, there is no Ascian minion in-game, which was absolutely part of the reason I wrote that chapter. I'm hoping we'll get one some day.


	19. Igeyorhm: Jewel

Summary: _Sometimes, she wishes to be seen as beautiful, too. Femslash._

Note: This is just an exercise to attempt to break my writer's block. I am posting it in hopes someone can enjoy it.

 _ **Jewel**_

* * *

A harsh and foreign beauty, hers is a gaze that steals your breath. As imperfections enhance a unique jewel, any flaws only serve to augment her presence. The snowfall congregates around her, the remains of flakes moistening warm flesh, the chill of the elements seemingly improving her vitality rather than sapping it. Her eyes can be as severe as clouds housing a pending storm, but also as bright as inlaid gemstones manipulating the sunlight. Even tussled by the wind, her hair is as soft as silk. A fleeting touch is all that is necessary, you promise yourself.

She is as smooth as ice and as hard as a tempered blade; her flesh gives beneath you like fresh powder under your feet, her muscles taut and coiled, like a serpent ready to strike. Life dances within her, subdued but welcoming, as she grasps your hand, removing your fingers from her face with a questioning gaze.

She cannot understand what you see, for she does not recognize the same in you.

"You are beautiful." Only the simplest explanation is required; she is an untouchable, eternal snowfield, unmarred by footfall.

"Empty flattery." She smiles at your honesty, little more than the slightest tilt of her lips revealing her pleasure, but does not return the compliment.

You do not expect it of her.

It is superfluous vanity, little more than a shallow desire when compared to partners sharing intimate resonance, existences intertwined within an elaborate maze with no end. She will never find you distracting, experiencing the intense desire to touch your features in curiosity. You will never steal her breath with a naked glace and her gaze will never be drawn to moist lips or supple breasts. She will not seek to tangle her hands through soft hair or to embrace you until the curves of your bodies are indistinguishable.

She is a partner who accepts all of you, yet knows none of you.

"Igeyorhm." Long after she turns from you, returning to her duty with a remorseful smile, he interrupts your introspection. "It is time."

So, too, must you turn from her, desires simultaneously sated and unfulfilled.

"Of course." Lahabrea will not mar your jewel; she is yours alone to hold, no matter how ephemeral that grasp may be.


	20. Elidibus: Vessel

Summary: _Immediately post-2.55, Elidibus comforts his lover. No matter what the others believe, the Emissary is not one to allow opportunity pass him by. Plotless author-indulgence._

 ** _Vessel_**

* * *

The Warrior of Light is troubled.

Predictable as they are, any attempts at concealing misgivings are meaningless; the bitter taste of failure expresses itself in Her Chosen's dead eyes and limp form. His lover is an empty vessel, its contents spilled across the floor, akin to a broken doll, ripped asunder by mortals meant to be protected -a vessel for Elidibus to fill as he pleases, a doll to shape and guide.

"They sacrificed themselves for me – their 'hope.' I could do nothing." Such needless remorse - no mountain can be blamed for its inability to shelter the world. The fault rests on the perpetrator of the cycle; as a child must first touch fire before they can know a burn, so too must Her taint be suffered before caution can be nurtured.

His hands bring exoneration, his fingers the oath of stability, dragging through thick hair as his partner wallows deeply in the depths of despair, his presence doing little to alleviate the vulnerability. The Warrior's defenses are shredded; it will take time for Elidibus to replace them, rebuilding their chains, one by one.

The burden on those who lead the hand of the future is a heavy one; as constant as the moon's rise, Her Champions are betrayed by Her children. This _must_ be the last occurrence – the last pain, the last betrayal, the last cycle.

"There was nothing for you to do." A frail consolation masking the rigid truth of necessary sacrifice; the responsibility of caring for all mortals restricts Her overseers and permits them only distant aid.

"You're mistaken, I. . ." Her Chosen's words are dust in the wind, scattered by deep inhalation revealing barely-hidden guilt that contradicts rational thought.

It will only require a small push to allow the seeds to take root. "Do not deny them their duty. They serve, as do you; 'twas their decision to give their lives in fulfillment of Her purpose." Elidibus offers his harsh lesson, the first taste of truth, a vile but necessary serum that aids in nourishment. Venom fills the empty vessel, festering as guilt, so that the shroud may be lifted and the truth embraced.

The warmth of mortal flesh continues to seep into him, his partner's body as distracting of taint as Her light; he has seen to it that his form is equally pleasing to Her Chosen. Even surrendering to ephemeral utopia, the Warrior remains trapped within an endless vortex, frown deepening.

"Minfilia -" The admission exhibits the slightest hesitation, signified only by a tremor in Her Chosen's voice. "- Hydaelyn spoke to her; it seems her duty was to –" The Goddess reveals Her true nature without interference;his satisfaction is diluted only by the fragility in his partner's gaze. "Will the same be asked of me? Am I to give everything for Her?" The Warrior withdraws, both mind and body, as the ramifications of being Chosen become clear. "I don't want to lose you, too."

Absurdity - and yet the Warrior clings to him like a lost child reunited with a parent, seeking comfort and security. This touch must never be stolen.

"We will always be together." With the Rejoining, Elidibus will end all pain, his lover's suffering relegated to nothing more than the remnants of a fleeting dream.

"It is not in proper form to make promises that are impossible to keep." His partner scolds, voice muffled by proximity, tinted with desperation. Even in his arms, the Warrior of Light still refuses acceptance, devotion to the Goddess an impermeable wall between them. "Why do we continue playing at this?" Her Chosen lashes out, the wall beginning its crumble with rejection.

He once pondered the same, knowing himself above such frivolities; binding himself to the Chosen of Light – asinine. Elidibus now knows otherwise, the solution clear. The Emissary will appease his master, pursuing His goals, lover at his side, bringing forth the new world together. He has taken the first step, so, too, must the Warrior take theirs. A word one day, a promise the next, a kiss to gently comfort - his is a steady path, a journey of patience, but the trail's end is within reach. "We will remain until the end of time, should you allow it."

"You are cruel." Only when necessary; the cogs continue their turn, the waters of despair flowing over the wheel, churning and manipulating the river's path through its very existence. In the depths of desperation, the Warrior barely denies his temptation. "You know I can't. Not yet."

A satisfactory answer, more conductive than the adamant refusal he has come to expect, swelling a warmth that laps within like waves on a lakeshore. The seed has rooted itself within Her Chosen, its maturation imminent. "Not yet." He agrees, celebrating success with the most selfish of rewards.

The Warrior of Light breathes heavily, swallowing his offered pleasure in effort to will the pain away, begging for the escape Elidibus is only too willing to provide. The Emissary wastes nary a moment, even if it is only to numb and aid his partner in forgetting the world Hydaelyn has chosen the Warrior to suffer on behalf of.

For his master and for his lover, he will secure this future, until all becomes nothing, no matter what is demanded of him.


	21. Unukalhai: Beloved

Summary: _Making game of Godslaying has its disadvantages. Dissipated aether from the continually stronger resummoned Primals congregates too deeply within the Slayer of Gods, causing collapse from intense aether sickness._

 _Now the former-Warrior of Light must start anew, with friends who seek the Slayer of Gods and a lost adventurer just searching for themselves. Post-3.1, pre-3.2, Amnesiafic, pre-amnesia relationship._

Notes: I realized that, for all the tropes I have played with, I haven't done amnesia yet. Every one-shot collection needs amnesia! That, paired with _totally-not-Elidibus-or-his-servant_ aiding us in our primal quests, I figured I'd do something a bit cute with _he's-really-not-an-Ascian-we-swear_ before we get our next update.

Someday I'll start writing one-shots with plot again, but for Valentine's Day, have something sweet.

 ** _Beloved_**

* * *

Sounds.

Flashing lights, bright and colorless, dance behind closed eyelids before being consumed by a crimson abyss.

A single voice, speaking without words, a stable rock within a churning, chaotic sea. There is no meaning to its communication beyond expressing its presence, calm and numbing, as if absorbing tension and fear, dispelling the darkness.

A word. The only melody in a still mind, echoing like the water's drip on the surface of an endless pond.

You repeat it aloud, the most precious word.

 _"I am here."_ A voice without sound, far from a creation of your imagination.

You open your eyes sluggishly, heavy in their drowsiness. There are no more sounds, but the bright lights that make up the living quarters in the Rising Stones are enough to send sharp waves of dizziness through you.

You've gone and done it again, unable to leave well enough alone. Already is your mind ringing with lectures condemning unnecessary risks and not a single word has left the Scions' mouths.

Absorbed in self-pity, you do not notice him until he speaks your name, placid with more serenity than one of his appearance has any right to have. Even behind the mask, Unukalhai's gaze is unwavering and focused, eyes refusing to leave yours.

He must have saved you, returning you to the Stones after you inevitably fell to the powerful beasts surrounding Revenant's Toll. Time and time again you flounder, flopping about like a foolish fish that continually strands itself on land each time it is placed in the safety of the water.

He always saves you; you're told that he was even the one who returned you when –

You brush the thought aside. No matter how insistently Urianger urges caution around the strange boy, he is the one who is always by your side, setting you at ease, acting as a poultice when you are broken.

Unukalhai does not scold or tell you off, but he does not need to. His hidden stare tells you nothing that you do not tell yourself – you're a fool, challenging those creatures, and unprepared for their strength, no matter the fluidity of your movement or the flexibility in your muscles.

True as it may be, you refuse to lounge in this room, drowning in the waters of madness; you are not crippled or helpless, no matter what the others may believe. Anything is better than remaining passive and stationary in futile attempt at regaining what is lost.

"Good morning." The boy speaks, breaking you from your thoughts.

"I apologize for the trouble." The shame from your ineffectual battle burns deeply, emphasizing the pain from your wounds. Your breaths are pained and you feel as if you've torn half of the muscles in your body; a quick glance reveals the beginnings of heavy bruising over your chest, abdomen, thighs, and forearms.

"You've not troubled me, 'twas coincidence that I happened upon you when you fell." You smile secretly at his reassuring lie. "Your companions need not be alerted to something so mundane as a few bruises."

The boy's knowledge of what you wish to hear is almost unnatural. You are sick of pity; the Scions do it unintentionally, your well-being of genuine importance in their hearts, but they see you only as an empty shell, searching for the fragmented remains for someone who no longer exists. They know who you used to be, not who are; you barely know them at all.

Y'shtola is blind; from what you've been told, Thancred lacks aether sense – challenged as they are, they act as if you are in a worse state. Walking on glass when around you, attempting to organize the broken shards, the Scions speak of fond memories, claiming them better times. Krile has even used her strange skill – the Gift, Unukalhai calls it, when he teaches you – in attempt to dispel your amnesia, but your mind houses an impenetrable wall, the past sheared away as if it never existed.

It is blasphemous for the Scions to speak aloud, but the situation is intensely dissatisfying; they need their Warrior of Light, their Slayer of Gods, not a doll whose only skill with weaponry and aether remains in muscle memory. You know more of the Gift than you do of fighting Gods.

'Tis hard to lament losing something that you don't remember in the first place.

All you have is now; you must learn and experience, to see and touch the unknown. You may have known Eorzea's secrets once, but no longer. The world is fresh and vibrant; you cannot simply sit about like a lame prize Chocobo, its legs broken from the races. You pursued the path of an adventurer, after all.

Unukalhai is different. Infinitely patient, your contradictory comrade lacks the subtle condescension of your former companions, seeking you out only for company. He is as distinct from the Scions as you are, this boy who is not a boy; his form is shrouded in a mist invisible to all but you and it is impossible to discern where he starts and were he ends, like the reflection of bright sunlight on a disturbed lake.

You brush a hand against him, reaffirming his nature. He is solid and no less present than you are, secure and comforting by his very existence.

 _"Knowledge and expectations clash, tinting your perception; do not ponder too deeply, all will be revealed in time."_ Was the only explanation he offered when you confronted him about it, as straight of an answer as any maze.

You've chosen to heed him; he is simply Unukalhai, he who accepts you as you are - so, too, will you accept him, no matter his odder attributes.

Your wallowing has gone on long enough. With a muffled, breathy groan, you arrange yourself into a sitting position, your muscles burning and wounds tearing themselves anew, sharp spikes of pain from the pressure on fresh bruises sending you reeling.

"Do not push yourself; layering yet more scars upon your flesh benefits no one." The boy's advice is sage, though difficult to swallow. "You mustn't concern yourself with what the Scions think; take as long as you need."

There is nothing else in Mor Dhona – all you _can_ do is move, to struggle vainly against enemies that continually defeat you. You considered returning to the cities, beginning your life as an adventurer anew, like you originally intended, but from your wanderings through Revenant's Toll, you learned of your fame and exploits. The Warrior of Light's prominence is known well beyond Eorzea; it is a heavy burden, a name that is not yours to live up to, its weight upon your shoulders crushing your bones.

"Unukalhai." You murmur, uncertain. He is your path, the watchful star that leads you in the moonlight. If anyone can guide you around this hurdle, it is Unukalhai.

The boy responds immediately with a foreign word, the title you use only privately. To the others, you may seem distant, like a child and a parent, but the lone word indicates the closure of formalities and the beginning of an intimate, secretive conversation.

"That is your nickname." You point out, unsure at why he addresses you as such, but it is not displeasing.

"It is yours as well." His evasion is not uncommon, deftly shifting the topic of conversation; you've come to understand that he enjoys this, very much a subtle guidance, one you are not entirely averse to. It is far softer than the Scions, more of a gentle hand that leads through an open grassland than one that unwillingly tugs through thick bramble.

"The language is unfamiliar." You accept his offer, letting him direct the conversation, for his is better than your alternative. The language impossible to place; you only remember hearing it from him.

"Ours is the most ancient of tongues. Forgotten by time, the Gift grants you understanding, but not knowledge." Unukalhai's descriptions are elaborate and formal, but the meaning remains clear. "If you are not averse, I would teach you."

It is more than you expected and nod quickly, bubbling with enthusiasm you cannot remember feeling. You've much to learn, so that you may differentiate yourself from the shade of a fallen Warrior, the remnants of a broken tool.

His speaks slowly, repeating new words, a greeting, a phrase of farewell, and simple formalities in a tongue that is harsher than yours, not nearly so nasal, and seemingly slower, words slurred and indistinct. He teaches when to emphasize certain sounds; others are almost impossible to hear at all.

It is a pleasant distraction, a goal to work towards. A new journey.

"Thank you." You finally whisper when you finish your session, in both your language and awkwardly in his, withholding your Gift's translation - for everything, for supporting you, for aiding you, for seeing you as who you are, not who you used to be.

He makes no reply save to place his tiny hand over yours, the mist congregating over your flesh, making its way up your arm in a touch that is not touch, delicate and soft, protective, affectionate as no child is.

You never learned the meaning of your precious word, but you've something more. You may have struggled in the past, fighting for a cause, against an enemy that you mustn't lose to with passion and incomparable fervor, but no longer.

A small an insignificant as your dream may be, you've taken a step, the first of many, led by a star away from a directionless existence; you will do whatever it takes to keep that star within your grasp.


	22. Twelfth Chalice: Dreadwyrm

Summary: 3.0; Level 58 Summoner Quest. That Bahamut's aether would have an effect on the channeler was always within the realm of possibility, but under no circumstances did Y'mhitra believe that the Warrior of Light could be defeated by a hug.

Notes: As I believe it is a worthy goal to pair the Warrior of Light with every Ascian that has more than one scene of screentime, and Chalice has more lines than Igeyorhm, here we go with one of the more blatant options for an Ascian story.

Chalice is Lahabrea's favored Lesser Ascian servant.

 _ **Dreadwyrm**_

* * *

Much like his master, the Ascian of the Twelfth Chalice is abrasively loud.

The dance is as natural as breathing, the Egis and their attacks intimately familiar and easily evaded as you focus on the ambient aether remaining in Carteneau - it's the Ascian and his persistent bluffs, constant mockery, and that confident, obnoxious laughter that continually disturbs your meditation, preventing you from completing your trance. If you weren't convinced of his intention to distract you, you'd half believe him vain enough to lust after his own voice.

 _Almost there_ – your perception sharpens, the land itself reacting to your touch, gifting you its insight. With the introduction of new energies, the Ascian slips from your mind, focus firmly concentrated on your internal aether flow, the only anchor preventing you from being consumed by newfound, erratic sensations.

Chalice's voice is the wind, the whistle of a gale rather than the shriek of the Lady of the Vortex, a harsh hum that negates all other sound, allowing for your harmonious withdrawal into the Dreadwyrm.

Flying, floating - the ground is not your place, energies levitating you above such limitations.

The euphoria of untold power is instantly overwritten. Bitter fury rolls through you in waves until you drown; trembling, drawing memories – being gifted memories – time stills. Every smell, sight, and taste are embraced in a single moment that is an eternity.

With clarity unlike any you've ever known, you view the devastated landscape through eyes unblinded by mortal restriction.

A voice, feminine and filled with panic, cries out in words that are meaningless. She is right to fear.

You continue your search, gaze settling on black. _Paragon,_ a subdued memory at the back of your mind names him, but the word holds no meaning. Who and what he is are irrelevant – he stands against you. The 'Paragon' is the cause for this.

"Stop!" The feminine voice's words are clear now, but they are a whisper to your roar.

A coil, taut and binding, grasps at your arm, attempting to restrict you.

No - not again _. Never again_. You rip yourself from its grip.

"Die." A feral growl, barely even a spoken word, echoes through your mind; his kind are the cause of _everything._

Rage, as red and blinding as a mask, the only memory that pierces the shroud. Black is not the one you seek, but it will suffice as replacement.

You dive; the Paragon cannot move quickly enough and you force your prey to the ground beneath you with ease.

Claws – fingers - tear into decaying forearm flesh, breaking it down with an unnaturally strong grasp. The robes do not tear, but the corpse does; it rends easily beneath you, satisfying in its fragility.

The feminine voice continues its attempts at interference, louder this time, but she is nothing in the face of the pain you've endured - or the pain this creature will continue to cause.

"So you've succeeded." The Paragon beneath you laughs, squirming and uncomfortable beneath your weight, but otherwise unhindered by your presence. You barely hear him. "But the Dreadwyrm's lifeforce is not yet within your ability to master."

His words have the weight of a light fog, barely noticeable in the morning sun. You pass through unhindered, the energies congregating between you in preparation for elimination.

"Succumbing so easily, your nature is of true destructive duality . . .you serve your master well –" Senseless. "- I serve mine better." Aetheric fire, hot and raw, scorches your flesh and pushes you away until you're sprawled on the ground at his feet, allowing the Paragon to put distance between you.

Desperately mocking you in attempt to mask his inferiority, the Paragon refuses to submit; he holds no rank to the master he so loves – nameless, faceless, he is little more than a tool to manipulate and discard at will. That he would dare question you -

No, he is not the one you want - but he _is_ the one you will have. The inferior being will learn his place, just as the master will learn his.

You dart forward again; he will not escape. If he will not be destroyed, he will be _yours._

Your aether ravages at the corpse, piercing already-broken and torn flesh, but your gasp is slick, inside him a wall of flawless ice, lacking aberrations that allow your control take hold, hindering your ability to claim all of him, no matter where you search or how deeply you penetrate. Closer and closer, you force him beneath you again, aether surrounding him in waves, but your search remains futile.

His laughter is breathy on your face; you snarl at your own incompetence.

" _You will never turn me from my master with such feeble control over a false God's aether."_ The words are not spoken aloud, instead vibrating through your mind as if you formed the thought yourself.

The Paragon does not bother struggling against you - he does not need to.

" _Mine."_ You will tear him from Lahabrea as you tore Lahabrea from Thancred; _you will dominate him as they once dominated you._

Names both familiar and unfamiliar, new and older than time, flash through your mind, stalling you, slightly relieving the pressure of your grasp.

The slightest opening is all he needs.

The coil returns, snake-like and impossibly tight, encircling your wrist – an enemy to limit you. You pull your arm out with all your strength.

"Such power -" He murmurs, tone unfamiliar and thoughts impossible to read. "- But it seems that with his strength comes his weaknesses."

Again the Paragon grasps at you, clutching your wrist with strength outside the realm of mortal possibility. You lash out, forcing him away, pushing his free arm down, limiting his movement in refusal to be bound. The mistake is immediately apparent; so close to him, the Paragon's arm is able to encircle your back before you finish your struggle, a prison, drawing you in closely and tightly - so near that you're pressed into the rise and fall of his chest, unable to easily struggle against his aether-enhanced binding strength.

Chuckling at your panic, he enjoys your weakness, taking pleasure in his dominance, just as you reveled in the power you held over him.

You can feel everything about him in this intimate embrace, one much better suited for a lover. His aether dances, electrifying the air between you, clashing with yours, his robes soft, lacking harsh edges and adornments, his touch firm but not violent, simply seeking to control and bind, rather than destroy.

The vivid sensations snap you from your trance, Bahamut's remaining aether fading into passive submission as your struggles fade and exhaustion from overexertion floods through you.

Second only to surprise at the strange situation, your panic rises as the understanding of how Chalice subdues you comes to light. At your lack of struggle, his arms finally, slowly, mockingly, slither down your sides, releasing you from his hold. You push yourself off, stumbling away, allowing your foe the opportunity to withdraw to safety.

He could have easily killed you in your weakness and foolish rush to dominate him. Be it for his glory or his master's, Chalice hesitated, his intentionsas obscured as his host's features; you cannot claim to know the mind of an Ascian.

Y'mhitra places a hand on your shoulder, aether providing succor as she heals your wounds; you had forgotten she and Dancing Wolf were present. Instinctively, you push the hand off your shoulder, the remnants of millennia of imprisonment still vivid within, but you offer her an apologetic glance a moment later, in hopes she understands your error. Even now, the Dreadwyrm's remains do not fade so easily; newly awakened energies send anxiety and doubt through you, prepared to lash out once again at moment's notice.

Chalice speaks, but you do not heed the words, doubtless little more empty bluffs. He has said all you wish to hear; his assigned purpose has failed and you have gained the Dreadwyrm's power. There is no purpose in further assault. At the thought, your eyes dart to his arm, the one Bahamut – you – tore apart; he holds it limply at his side, the wound hidden well in his defensive stance, but you are a predator and he is your prey, the weakness clear to you, even now, as the dragon's instincts fade.

This time, when Chalice flees, you make no attempt to follow.

"We did it. . .We faced a Paragon, and lived!" Y'mhitra sighs in relief, but her stance sags, more nervous and exhausted than she is wishes to admit. Her hands waver, even as she continues her soothing ministrations. "It's thanks to you." She offers gentle praise, even if only moments before she was calling out in terror and worry.

You shake your head; as long as Chalice and his master still live, much remains to be done.

"I'm afraid this is neither the time nor place to celebrate." Dancing Wolf remains guarded. You cannot fault the Roegadyn for his caution; unless one is Warrior of Light, it is not every day that one challenges Gods and immortals of legend and survives. You succumbed to the power of the very Dreadwyrm you were intended to control; you cannot but applaud his devotion and resilience in the face of uncertainty.

Pushing yourself to your feet in wordless agreement, you gaze back over the flats. The Ascian of the Twelfth Chalice is truly gone; even now Chalice taints you, his essence seared like a brand into your mind after your irrational, failed attempt at tempering. As easily as recognizing a familiar face in a crowd, you'd know if he was nearby.

There's still time; you won't lose again - not to him, not to his master, and never again to a strategy like _that,_ refusing to even consider it, even after his touch has faded.

Your name, spoken cautiously but firmly, draws you from your thoughts, bidding you off the platform, the words easily recognizable now that Bahamut no longer influences you; you offer a smile and nod, following your companions quickly, turning away from your weakness – and away from the strange Ascian who chose not to exploit it.


	23. Nabriales: Edge

Summary: Post-2.3, Pre-2.4. The Warrior of Light's pack has been stolen, with all of the items, gil, and equipment inside of it. Stranded in the middle of a storming Coerthas without a single gil and thus unable to afford the calamity restoration fees required for teleportation to Mor Dhona's aetherite, there is no other option but to immediately pursue the heretic through a raging blizzard.

In the depths of a frigid, heretic-filled cavern, the Warrior of Light meets him. It really should come as no surprise that, despite their concealed features and identical robes, the Ascians are not a hive mind - the Warrior of Light simply wasn't expecting _this_ from an enemy.

Note:

For request: _How it happened – Nabriales._

Because part of the appeal of 'bad boys' is the sense of mystery, unpredictability, and danger.

 _ **Edge**_

* * *

You sense his presence before you see him, using an indistinct basal sense with an inexplicable existence that provokes your instinct for survival. The aether tears on the ridge high above you, air being clawed apart like a voidsent invading Hydaelyn, darkness spilling through into Her realm.

The Ascian makes no effort to hide – his nature denies him the need to – as his gaze sweeps the despoiled sanctum below, over the bodies of the unfortunate souls who believed you to be easily felled, before finally resting upon you, his lips in a neutral line as he observes the invasive curiosity. You meet his stare without hesitation and the lips turn upward. Again the aether tears, darkness congregating in the open space no more than three yalms from you, the Hyur-like form re-establishing itself quickly.

"I was not expecting such carnage." The words are offhanded as he glances again over the fallen heretics, though his tone holds approval at your brutality.

His voice is different, harder than Elidibus' and more nasal than Lahabrea's; it takes only a look at the stranger's mask to confirm your suspicions. "You're not Lahabrea."

He makes a guttural sound at the back of his throat in response, crass and inappropriate in unfamiliar company, annoyed and surprisingly mortal.

"A fact that assuredly brings us mutual pleasure."He expresses no surprise that you not only see him, but recognize him for what he is. "You must be his 'Bringer of Light.'"

He sneers out the title and you brace your weapon in response, no matter how uncertain victory may be.

The Ascian waves you off with a shrug, like one might an annoying bug or when dismissing a small child. "I must express my gratitude - Lahabrea has never been humbled, 'twas a harsh and well-deserved lesson." You can but stand dumbfounded at the unexpected admission. "But through his defeat I am relegated to the duties of a servant; perhaps 'twould be better to curse you."

The topic of conversation is unlike any previous the Paragons have instigated. You recall the Emissary's declaration of Lahabrea's uniqueness, but his phrasing was vague and you assumed he intended to appease you in attempt to build a foundation for trust. There may have been more truth to his words than you realized.

Even more striking than his words are his demeanor and tone; relaxed, lazy, informal, he very much appears the opposite of the Emissary and is absolutely nothing like the overbearing Lahabrea. Despite his apathy, you sense unpredictability lurking below the surface, a chaos more worrisome than the blatant aggression of Lahabrea and his servants or the sweetened, manipulative nature of Elidibus.

You grip your weapon harder, standing your ground. You step precariously near an invisible ledge when interacting with him, the slightest wind able to topple you over to your doom.

"You needn't worry; it's been _requested_ that I avoid engagement and I've no intention of suffering an irritated Elidibus."

Again he shrugs, half turning from you, revealing the ritualistic purple pattern on the back of his robes. He channels no swirls of dark aether, no vibrant red crest adorns his features, as he stands indifferently, demonstrating the truth of his words - he has no intention of fighting you.

The Ascian is odd. You can think of no other phrase to describe him save that he is a curiosity; his actions contradict everything you know of his people. His words are absurdly familiar, no different from any mortal complaints; the subtle sense of danger remains even as he rants, but he lacks caution, probing, seeking, experimenting, testing unknown waters, tasting the alien dish, in his utter confidence.

That he turns his back to you shows not an unwillingness to fight, but that he believes victory is assured. You are thankful for any restrictions the Emissary places upon his fellow; after your struggle with the heretics, you are unsure you are capable of facing such a foe.

"Why are you here?" You question; the Paragons meddle with mortals for many purposes, none of them healthy, but his mandated presence seems to displease him.

"I've no reason not to be." He is evasive, but you cannot argue. You've no claim over the cavern, you're just as much of a guest he is – if not more. Blood was spilled so that you could gain entry and venture into its depths; the heretics fiercely defended this small room with its ice-covered walls, bountiful food stores, decorated carpets doubtless stolen from Ishgardian nobility strewn across the floor, and multiple tanned hides, covered in thick, warm furs acting as beds.

Your heart pounds in your ears; the serenity of this once-peaceful locale of worship was shattered by your presence. Enough lives have been lost today – avoiding unnecessary conflict with an Ascian can only be beneficial.

With utmost hesitance, you sheathe your weapon. The edge becomes a chasm, impossibly deep, the pressure of the wind bidding you off solid ground, sending your stomach tumbling in ecstatic thrill.

You nod in agreement, walking past him to what appears to be a pile of belongings. You kneel, tossing the objects to the side as you begin your search for your pack.

Perhaps if you ignore him, he will leave you be. If he wishes to stick his nose where is does not belong, let him; you've nothing to hide, when you find your pack, you will return to the Stones and proceed with your business as if this disaster never occurred. Playing games with a strange, bitter Ascian is not in your best interest, no matter how thoroughly your instincts tease at you, drawing out your adrenaline.

He continues watching, his gaze piercing your back, sending shivers through you, like the unfamiliar sensation of prey being observed by a predator that makes no attempt to hide its intentions of searching for its next meal

"I suppose these mortals are necessary sacrifices." The Ascian speaks, seemingly intent on drawing your attention back to him; you can almost imagine the shrug of his shoulders. "I cannot condemn you for defending yourself, of course, but their deaths are an inconvenience."

You pause, but only for a moment, hoping he does not notice. So he _is_ in league with the heretics; he speaks openly in confirmation, as if he does not care that the information is leaked – or perhaps he even wishes for you to act upon it.

You draw in a deep breath, understanding. He's goads you, tempering your hostility, so that he has the opportunity to defend himself, as you defended yourself from the heretics.

No, you will not give in to him.

"What do you want from me?" You turn when you finish futilely searching the pile of belongings. Clenching your jaw, your eyes dart over to the bedding, beginning your search anew.

A quick glance as you walk past the Ascian reveals the shaking shoulders of silent laughter, annoying you further. He is amusing himself and you're gifting him with exactly what he seeks; he enjoys aggravating you and revels in your discomfort. You've been falling to his trap this entire time.

Your pack remains elusive and the hole you dig for yourself becomes deeper.

"I am but an observer." He replies with the same bored tone. A smile tugs at his lips, one that is not entirely pleasant, that tenses your muscles once again, annoyance again turning into the sense of danger, adrenaline's pulse making it impossible to concentrate on anything but the robed man.

"You're more of an irritator." You are not fool enough to accept the pretense; there is hazard in this game you play, countering him, accepting his taunt and engaging in verbal battle.

"I do not deny it." His amusement is unhidden now, openly satisfied at your reaction. "The role I've been assigned is droll and impersonal; to sit passively when acting is a possibility - you understand my frustration I'm sure, Warrior of Light."

There is threat in his words, subtle but not hidden, tempting you to continue. It seems he has been assigned to the equivalent of Ascian guard duty, like those black-masked servants, and he searches for something – _anything_ – to break the tedium, to be given excuse to fulfill his purpose.

The wind howls as you approach him in preparation for the upcoming storm.

This isn't right. It is not only your risk, the Ascian's purpose may be jeopardized by provoking you - yet he does the same. He is so unlike his peers, but so very much identical to them. The game he plays is exhilarating, the dance on the ledge very much like the moment before instigating battle with an unfamiliar Primal, the danger addicting and appealing, satisfying some part of your core nature.

"If you're that bored, help me find my pack." You dance the edge, accepting your foolishness, your voice breathy from your rapid heartbeats.

"I am not your servant." There is spite in his tone; 'tis clear as a summer day that he has no interest in remaining here. His passionate and immediate averse responses – identical to those he attempts to draw from you - would be amusing were he not shadowless. You cannot fault him for his delight in your reactions when you are no different.

"Nay, it seems you serve the heretics instead, Paragon." You turn your back to him, leaping off the edge in free fall.

"Would that I had a choice in the matter." He confirms your suspicions as you lift the spare bedrolls.

Before you can question further, you find it. Heavy, reliable but worn, and unbelievably resilient, your pack has been hidden deeply in the pile; it seems the one who stole it did not intend to share. Your heart beats in joy, the pulse distinct from its earlier pound, washing away any of the fatal dance you were choreographing only a moment before.

Clutching it your chest, you turn back to him, so that the Ascian recognizes his entertainment is at an end.

"You're fascinating, Bringer of Light. An acceptable distraction." The smirk returns to his lips, his tone no longer that of distaste. "I am Nabriales. Remember that next we meet."

Before he even finishes, Nabriales is gone, the aether's tear restored as soon as it forms, darkness absorbing the strange Ascian within it.

The cavern is silent and still, the rage of the blizzard outside no more than a gentle distant hum. Your heart's race slows, your breaths normalize, and your skin covers itself in a thin, chill sheen of sweat, as if you've just completed a fierce trial that tested all of your capabilities, releasing the same euphoric satisfaction that has you begging for more.

You can but wonder – Twelve, _what are you doing_?


	24. Elidibus: Paradise

Summary: Post 3.2. The Warrior of Light seeks answers. Elidibus is Elidibus. Explicit. Orgasm denial, fingering.

Notes: For kinkmeme, prompt: _FemWoL. Elidibus sexing up the WoL instead of answering their questions about important things, lots of fully-intentional innuendo to dodge questions. Orgasm denial._

I wanted to try something a bit different with Ascian physical sex, so here we go. I hope it's to the promptor's satisfaction; I make no claim that I'm good at writing smut.

 _ **Paradise**_

* * *

They must think you a fool.

All of them. Elidibus. The not-boy. Urianger. Do they believe your eyes so clouded?

An unfair condemnation, perhaps; the willing disregard for truth is a perpetual irritation for the Emissary and he is prone to the immediate correction of particular misbeliefs. The others lack such an excuse.

Would that your partner be willing to share the entirety of the truth he so frequently flaunts; he instead vexes you with the constant promise of fate's balance, of eventualities and necessities, as distracting and fluttery as his lips on your bare neck, sucking in thin, fragile flesh - as irritating as the unwelcome tingle of a stranger's Echo delving through your memories.

"Why would someone call themselves a Warrior of Darkness?"

Elidibus drags his mouth up your cheek; well-practiced in shielding his responses, his body language reveals nothing of his thoughts. His kisses are the only indication he hears you at all, words spoken only when his lips are once again atop yours.

"A reflection of the lost with the burden of understanding."

You reject his evasive dance, intolerable now that even the previously-silent Hydaelyn offers vague elaborations on the truth of your conflict. "I summoned you for answers, not pleasure." Though his taste _is_ a rare delicacy, a delight never for overlooking – a trait he reminds you of at every available opportunity. "I'll not be toyed with."

He chuckles, pulling you closer until you can feel the gentle rumble of amusement at the back of his throat; the husky sound, barely above a whisper, is so rare that it incites shivers through your core.

"I am not so coarse that I'll stop at toying." One hand snakes under your clothes, the blunt side of clawed fingertips stroking your back, the other tangles itself in your hair, clinging, intertwining the locks just above your neck, teasing the base of your scalp as he lounges back on the bed, pulling you completely onto his lap, your legs spread over his waist.

"Do not think to avoid answering, Elidibus." Your rebuttal holds little of the intended command as you lean into the massage, giving him fuller access to your form, your arms to encircling his neck, feeling the toned flesh of aether-sustained muscles – an expectation formed of foreknowledge that has become distracting, satisfying reality. "Tell me of the masked boy."

"There are no boys here." His hand slithers forward, from your back to your breast, playing at your nipple, rolling it between the pale cloth of his gloves. The delicate skin of your breasts could easily be torn by the unnaturally sharp metal adornments, but Elidibus is gentle, the claws used to stroke and tease, to trace the edge of your areola in a willing sacrifice of power.

"Why the proxy? I am always available to you." The tingle in your stomach is undeniable, contractions tensing your abdomen as you shudder; hard nipples ache and beg, wanting Elidibus to pinch more strongly, wanting his hand that still rests on your neck to roam more intimate locales. Your knees dig into him instinctively, hips grinding into his waist.

"Always?" A quiet, breathy whisper that blows stray hairs from your face.

He needs as little confirmation of your relationship as you do, but you nod regardless, opening yourself to him. Elidibus needs no further instigation, working your top off as he pushes you onto the bed with his weight. The stray hand finally leaves your hair, making its way down your neck, chest, and abdomen, fingers trailing with intentional viscosity until reaching your hips.

You tremble in anticipation as he removes your undergarments, teasing your thighs with three fingers, stroking with unpredictable patterns until the sensitive skin can tolerate it no more, your body releasing an almost violent tremor before his hand finally finds its destination on your moist clitoris, a single touch all he needs for your breath to escape and your words to jumble.

"Eli –" His tongue is so very distracting, darting over your abdomen. "- Triad."

"If that is your wish, I'll not deny your desires." He lifts his mouth only to speak, his devotion to your pleasure absolute. "Who would be to your tastes?"

"What. . ." Before you can criticize his absurdity, he spreads your labia, finger sliding down into your vagina with ease. Restrictive and almost uncomfortable, Elidibus plays as gently as he can, stroking at the hard flesh of its frontal wall, seeking the most sensitive spot, probing with claws that allow him deeper access than uncovered fingers – in and out, a single finger and then two, easily penetrating as you naturally lubricate.

Without warning he releases it - cold, yet somehow alarmingly warm, impossibly hard, tight and uncomfortable, its sides sharp, pressure unbalanced and unpredictable. The tiny, foreign object pulses, vibrating with undefinable energy just near enough so that it can be removed, but deeply enough that your squirms only lodge it inside you more deeply.

"His greatest gift." He elaborates before you can gasp out further unintelligible babble. " _My_ greatest gift."

It hums, almost directing the pound of your lust; Elidibus' finger again returns to your clitoris, now slick and welcoming, pressing down from above to meet the crystal within you below, he rubs in rapid circles in time with the release of its invasive aether. His mouth distracts itself with you nipple once again, finally with the strength you need, teeth tugging just hard enough that the heat deepens, a pleasant pain that amplifies an already violent fire in your abdomen, muscles constricting.

"Eli-Eli - s-stop. Ah-answers." You arch your back into your partner until your hips almost reach his chest, unfinished words broken by harsh pants, thoughts overwritten by lust until they are barely more than a dream. All else is secondary to your body's demands.

"Stop?" He lifts his mouth from your breast to look into your eyes; the crystal, once tight inside you, dissolves instantaneously, disappearing so utterly that its dissipating aether is the only evidence of its former presence. His hands passively return to their place on his lap, leaving you burning in unsatisfied dissatisfaction.

Your vagina tenses, pounding heavily, burning, desperately seeking what once was. Still-heavy pants dry your tongue, words difficult form in your dizziness. "Don't stop."

A secretive smile forms on his lips in response – lips that are still slicked with the sheen of saliva - that your breasts still long for the touch of.

"How am I to know what you wish of me when you persist in being contradictory?" He mocks you, the cruel creature, stroking your stomach below your navel with the chill, pale metal on his knuckles, sensation reminiscent of a cool, delicate chain on hot skin; he trails the lazy touch over your collarbone and neck, intentionally avoiding hard nipples and sore breasts, over the areas where flesh is thinnest and goosepimples form at the simplest touch.

Your shivers are uncontrollable; unable to resist, your hand slides over your begging, slick clitoris so that you can finish what Elidibus has started. With alarming speed, he catches your wrist before your hand reaches its goal, his position above you advantageous. He grasps both arms, pushing them to the bed, resting his weight on his knee between your thighs, preventing any satisfying grinding, the mischievous smile never leaving his lips.

With a gentle pressure, he places one finger back over your clit and penetrates you with another, releasing only a fragment of the aether he previous shared, the pressure just enough to keep your arousal from dampening.

The only answer you offer is an incoherent snarl of frustration.

"You mustn't be so difficult." He scolds with a kiss, biting your bottom lip before his mouth returns to your left breast, the tip of your erect nipple manipulated by his tongue.

Painful, sore, and tight, all you can focus on is the intense pounding, your thighs crushing into Elidibus until he finally begins anew, pressing hard into your clit, rubbing quickly up and down, aether congregating in your vagina once again at its entrance, the crystal pressed inside you, the pinch of its sharp sides barely noticeable. The aether it exudes numbs as it flows through your body, released with the dam of desire, intense and focused, hot and explosive. You cannot stifle the soft moan and gasp as your hips rise and euphoria blinds you to all the world, tremors of bliss spreading from your tongue to the tips of your toes.

"You're not going to answer." Are the first words from your mouth when the waves of heat recede, a whispery, defeated pant.

"I act in our best interests - as I always will."

What Elidibus believes to be your best interests and what you believe them to be vastly differ. With the fog receding from your mind, you understand his intentions; in sharing his dark crystal, he has shared his existence, the greatest gift he has. It is impossible to disbelieve him when he does such things.

Cursed Ascian.

As does he, so too must you act as you always have, searching for the paradise where you must no longer partake in secretive, hasty, one-sided delights, but instead freely indulge in prolonged, unhidden mutual satisfaction. If such a promised land does not exist, you will create it.

But for now the coil of your legs around your partner's, the heave of his chest in time with yours, and the stroke of his fingers through your hair remains satisfactory.


	25. Ascian Prime: Universal Manipulation

Summary: 3.0; The Warrior of Light will fight until the end. Or at least until lust overwrites rationality.

Notes: For kinkmeme, prompt: _Status ailments without gameplay and story segregation_  
I chose **Fetters.**

Because even Ascian abominations deserve happily every afters.  
I have no idea how to describe the kinks in this story. Light bondage? Fantasy submission? Cuddly kinkiness? Kinda-sorta threesome?

 _ **Universal Manipulation**_

* * *

If nothing else, they are determined - as are you; your lovers _must_ be weakened so that the star remains whole.

Though Lahabrea oft whispers of the Echo's secrets and Igeyorhm teases of unions you've yet to experience, the truth defies comprehension, their limitations as shattered as your expectations.

The sacrifice of their aether-formed flesh is both boon and curse. They've bared their essence in attempt to stop you; all that shields them is the remaining barrier around their shared soulspace – if Lahabrea's continued lessons have taught you anything, the Echo is nothing if not the ability to overcome such barriers.

Victory is within reach; their attacks cease, the momentary lapse giving you the needed time to catch your breath before beginning your assault anew.

The aether about your stirs, mutating the air as if changing the facility's very nature. Seemingly intent on a new strategy, your partners channel immense power, confident that whatever the result, its effect will be worth the sacrifice and temporary vulnerability.

Existence warps, the power seemingly manipulating the universe itself, tearing the fabric of reality with pulses so strong that Hydaelyn cannot contain it, holes of darkness seeping through into Her realm.

They won't let you die, as you will not destroy them, but their will to succeed, to proceed with their goal unhindered, is equal to yours. Whatever this attack's effect, you know it to be unpleasant.

Those portals are key; you either risk incapacitation by the tremendous power the Ascians draw and the inability to stop their planned Rejoining, or the portal to darkness unknown.

Neither option appeals.

A portal tears in the aether behind you, the choice made for you, strength of the rift drawing you in like a vortex, feet lifting from the floor and stomach tumbling in the momentary chaos; the rift is shallow but strong, entrapping you, but not absorbing you completely. You can see little outside the darkness, your head forced into an upward tilt, your arms held close to your sides as if bound, your legs flailing as futilely, your very core restricted until you are unable to struggle against the binding fetters.

As if time stills and the universe collapses on itself, their spell completes; detached from Hydaelyn, the rift shields you, but even the distant touch of their aether overwhelms, the release outside the rift so strong that it floods over every corner of your flesh, shredding loose cloth as easily as a knife slices butter.

With the pressure on the plane alleviated, you expect the darkness to release you, but you remain in its clutches, its restraints absolute. You work to channel aether, but it dissipates into the rift as soon as it's within your grasp, seemingly strengthening the bonds; the situation becomes more unfavorable with each instant that passes.

"To think you would attempt to escape into our realm." They revel in satisfaction for the shortest moment; the darkness is no longer feared, but representative of safety. "Do not deny fate; the Rejoining is an inevitability." Frustration taints their words, your refusal to accept their methods the root of conflict – a dilemma that will not be resolved easily.

The fetters deny you the ability to reply and they must know it; their hands, emphasized into skeletal claws roam your arms, the dark aether that makes up their body invisible, even to you, as it clings to your flesh, merging with yours, seemingly in attempt to invade, to make you one with them, their robes covering your flesh like a protective sheet. Perhaps this is the closest to their true forms that you've yet encountered, but even in your intimacy they remain veiled, twisted, two contained as one – a true amalgamation of the Echo.

They toss your weapon aside and loose your armor, believing the battle to be over. Frustration and humiliation fill you as deeply as the excitement of their touch, your inability to fight them shaming and appealing both.

It is a rarity that you are so vulnerable, the weakness as magnetizing to your partners as a chest of gold to a thief, their bare aether dancing over you, amplifying their emotions; as raw and primordial as the Whorl's tides, the shadows that compose their body whisper unspoken promises of what you will later share, as thorough of distraction as the fetters themselves. Their anticipation of full control spills into you, rousing your breaths and sending shivers over sweat-slicked flesh.

So close to you, the traits of the individuals are emphasized; Igeyorhm seeks to hold that which her hand does not normally grasp, the ice of her claw running down over the most delicate parts of your body, over the thin flesh of your neck and the sensitive realm below your navel, teasing at the skin between your thighs with an unspoken promise. She removes the rest of your clothes, exposing your form to the world, her presence both soothing the shame of your defeat and amplifying it, seeking to control with a reliance for protection and emphasized desire.

If Igeyorhm's is the subtle bite of winter's wind bidding you find shelter, Lahabrea's is the breath of the Lord of the Inferno, commanding your obedience; his hand grasps tightly over your wrist and forearms, mockingly playing at the invisible fetters that bind you in the darkness. Lahabrea's satisfaction is emphasized by your weakness and rare submission to his will; with carnal intensity he probes, seeking to eliminate the remaining inhibiting boundaries that prevent you from acting by his side.

The contradictions overwhelm, making you want to hide your face at the shame of your weakness just as strongly as you wish for their touch to deepen and aether to delve more strongly, to taste you as is inappropriate to ever be tasted when outside the privacy of your room.

You cannot deny them; you've no wish to deny them. Your body is theirs. The claws continue their strokes, the remnants of their touch an electric trail over your shoulders, your neck, through your hair, and down your face, until you cannot determine where their hands are and where their hands have been, the passage of time diluted, and all you know is your partner.

Far too soon the fetters weaken and the darkness subsides, pushing you from the shallow rift well before you have any intention of leaving. Dazed from overexposure to pure aether, your body still tingles from your lover's touch. Pulsing in desire for more, unfulfilled and begging, you are disgusted at how easily they have distracted you from your purpose.

"How long will you endure?" Their voice rings from behind you, a purr of promise rather than a sneer of confidence.

Commanded back to hard reality by their words, the remaining warmth within turns to the burn of adrenaline as you grope for your fallen weapon.

"There _will_ be Rejoining." They again declare, intent on continuing battle, the immense power being drawn once again, plane tearing, unable to resist their command.

Darkness spills into Her realm once more, empty rifts the only available protection from the spell.

The Rejoining cannot occur. You _must_ endure.

You dive into the fetters of darkness.


	26. Elidibus: As it should always have been

Summary: _Unspecified, post-3.2. In order to make certain the events in the Gerun Oracles do not come to pass, Elidibus proposes a solution. Explicit oral; Impregnation via aether sex._

Notes: For request: _FemWoL; sex with the intent of Impregnation._

In case you've not spoken to Urianger in the Sands after his discussion with Elidibus 3.1, this premise for this story is based upon his dialogue there.

 _ **As it should always have been**_

* * *

The Divine Chronicles speak of unimaginable destruction.

Bound to inescapable destiny, its shackles demand annihilation. Even your hand inadvertently succumbs to fate's decree.

Such fate is within your ability to prevent **-** or so you're told; Elidibus' vague whispers promise a more desirable future, a time when you will no longer be in conflict, where such destruction need not occur. Trusting that he speaks the truth, you can but believe your goal is neither dream nor delusion - that your purpose is more than empty fantasy.

You roll the tiny crystal between your fingers, pale and delicate, devoid of energy, it is almost ephemeral, as if ready to shatter at any moment.

"Unanchored, external sources will influence its development." Elidibus explains, your throat soured with the first taste of bitter doubt. This is the reality of the path you've chosen - Spoken need no crystals, flesh bears their souls.

"Are you certain this will work? That our bodies are –" You hesitate, immediately and futilely hoping it evades Elidibus' notice. " - compatible?" Perhaps you should have asked when he first proposed his solution. Though you too house crystals - reservoirs of power connecting you to your master that differ little from an Ascian's - your existence in Her realm is not dependent on them.

"You distinguish between that which should be indistinguishable." If Elidibus is cautious, he hides it well; beyond the expected satisfaction and confidence is serenity and peace, as if the turbulence that whorls within you slides off him. "What is the soul if not the purest aether? What is the Gift, if not the ability to overcome Her barriers?" He lifts your hand to his mouth in a soothing, formal kiss before meeting your lips; his taste, his feel, clean and smooth, refreshing and subdued, are no different from any night previous. "Our child will embody the rightful order."

By Hydaelyn's admission you cannot deny this truth - Dark and Light are intended to be as one.

"As it was, so shall it be again." You repeat the words he so often speaks, a frail consolation in the face of uncertainty. His body, hard under soft robes, his kisses, light and fluttery over your neck, his hands massaging your scalp, tangling within your hair – recognizable pleasures that would not be out of place on any other evening – they are all a mask, no different from the one that conceals his features, to distract you from your worries.

He pushes you down beneath him, bidding you relax, to calm and concentrate. Regardless of the way his touch over your forearms sends warm, contradictory shivers to the tips of your toes, of the familiar, welcome way he sucks your lower lip, you tense defensively in nervousness.

The reaction displeases both of you; far from averse to his touch, your anxiety simultaneously repels your partner and pleads for him to continue, conflicting reactions impossible to contain, confounding even to the one experiencing them.

Elidibus does not falter; as if expecting your worry, he offers a final, prolonged kiss before he removes his mouth from yours, confident in his unspoken solution.

Kneeling before you, hand supporting the back of your knee, his lips move down your calf in quick fluttery kisses. Slowing at the base of your foot, he draws his tongue over your arch before approaching the end, sucking at your toes. His tongue plays at each, encircling the tips; one at a time as he sucks, hot and slick, sending shivers up your leg.

You recognize Elidibus' intentions immediately and welcome him to do as he pleases. His hand plays at your thigh, the edge of his ornamental claws stroking the sensitive flesh at the back of your knee, warming your abdomen and increasing your pulse. Your muscles constrict as moist, saliva-coated lips make their way back up your calf, skin being drawn between his lips, sucking and lightly nibbling, as if he seeks to absorb and devour.

His warm mask nuzzles against your leg as his mouth makes its way to more receptive areas; the edges of his hood, of neither cotton nor woolen nor silk, offer additional tease, their soft strokes like a stray finger dancing on the sensitive flesh between open thighs.

Elidibus devotes himself wholly to his purpose – even if that purpose is pleasing you, to release your tension and quell budding hesitation. His breath is heavy between your legs when he finally finds the raw, pounding, arousal-swollen flesh; slick and wet, tight and clenched, you lean into him, encircling your legs around his neck, wordlessly begging for him to continue – to do more than tease with empty promises.

Obliging, he spreads the flesh of your labia, his tongue flicking out, darting between layers of flesh, licking in directionless whorls and unknown symbols, over and under, as if seeking to coat all of you, to taste and remove all of your natural lubricant, replacing it with saliva. The hot tingle turns into a pound of torturous rapture as his tongue peeks below under sensitive flaps; his lips repeatedly suck at your clit, tongue playing just below, cause violent tremors to course throughout your body until you cannot stifle your quiet moan, free hand clenching as your innards constrict, your heartbeats heavy, heat spreading and deepening.

"I'm going to begin." Jarring and unwelcome, he forces you back to reality. You've not finished and you irrationally wish to deny him, to demand he continue and lead you to climax, but his purpose is achieved, your tenseness dissipated and replaced with the necessary state of heightened arousal.

Lowering your legs from his shoulders, you nod, panting in frustration, symbolizing your readiness as the intense pulse of lust slowly diminishes. The warmth in your belly remains painful and unsatisfied as its fire fades from inferno to glowing embers.

"I offer everything I am, so that my purpose is fulfilled." He murmurs a quiet prayer, one you are not entirely sure is intended to be heard. Whether his devotion belongs to you or his master is unclear - it matters little to you in your lust-heightened, hyper-aware state. The Emissary has his beliefs and you've yours, but the purpose is one and the same – to reject fate, to restore balance.

He grasps your hand, replacing the dull, empty crystal you've held so close with his dark crystal; equally small, his crystal pulses with energy so intense it numbs your fingers. You hold the precious object to your breast, determined to keep it safe during his journey. All further thoughts of continued pleasure are dispelled as Elidibus' aether-formed flesh is unmade, dark aether fading and smothering your entire body so that it is easily absorbed through your skin and orifices, taking with him the new, stabilizing crystal you will soon nurture within.

For a moment, his presence is completely indiscernible, as if he has truly disappeared, but it quickly reforms, concentrated within your warm abdomen, pooling up to your breast and resting within your core; tight and focused, it is not the tease of aether he uses for pleasure, nor an arousing pulse intended for amplification, but a flood behind a dam, filled with burning cramping and painfully intense invisible weight, as if being crushed from the inside out.

Unable to hold such a centralized quantity of pure aether, your body constricts. Elidibus demands your full attention to not reject entirely; his foreign life force appalls your basal instincts, despite its unexpected familiarity – aether is the same, no matter the source, his core no different than yours, no matter his master or how alien his existence.

Instinctively you defend yourself, shielding yourself from the invasive, raw pressure. Much like your body would protect itself from a virus, your aether surrounds him, mingling. Even intruding and painful, his existence is sedate and calming, his touch through your abdomen like dipping your foot into a pristine, undisturbed freshwater pool. Unshielded, Elidibus is equally vulnerable to your influence; like dye spreading through clear, dark waters, your aether taints him, until the calming, controlled sense envelops all of you as much as you envelop all of him, until the rest of the world bleeds away, your sensations absorbed by serene power.

Numbing and hallucinatory, merged aether flows like ripples from him, inward rather than out, precise and calculated. It tingles – or perhaps not – a clouding fog dominating your mind; everything that is not Elidibus is a haze and yet you barely know him to be within you at all. He neither starts nor ends; Elidibus is as much you as you are him, everything shared in intense concentration on a single, pointed location.

You know you've succeeded when you feel its distinct flow. Like the chill of ice water or the heat of a scalding soup down your throat, it courses through your body; foreign and so very delicate, the merged, yet independent aether is barely more than a wisp in the midst of a hurricane, one that cannot even finish a single cycle through your core before retreating passively, disappearing from your senses, unable to sustain itself.

Elidibus recognizes it as well, detangling himself and pulling away slowly, leaving a twisting, expanding crevice within you. His presence is missed before you even recognize it as gone.

"I don't think it worked." You're reluctant to feel for the fragile life after Elidibus' warnings, seemingly unable to sense its presence any more than you can recognize the function of a hidden organ or tissue.

"It must come into its own, as with any other child." He shows rare weakness as he lounges beside you; the energy expected of him was far more than that required of you, his entire existence risked by the endeavor. His words are quiet and breathy, no longer exhibiting his earlier confidence.

As if hesitant, worried that he might somehow influence the child, Elidibus does not hold you. He barely touches you at all, the tips of his fingers roaming over your shoulders and back, each stroke electric and filled with energy. His touch completes the abyssal void his exit left no more than a moment before as he unintentionally drags your aether beside his.

His fingers avoid the most sensitive places - your aching breasts, your burning abdomen, your slick, sticky thighs. Even with strokes of love and devotion, he is distant, seemingly almost revering your body in an intentional denial of his desires. You roll over to face him, rejecting his imposed distance. Taking his hand, you return his invaluable dark crystal - his very life - as you bury your face in his neck, allowing his smell and essence to wash over you - and yours to wash over him. Finally relenting, his arms encircle you, weight heavy, welcome, and decidedly tangible - no longer the distant, hallucinatory touch of aether.

You cannot know what to say – if there is anything to say at all. Elidibus is as stiff and tense as you were before beginning your intimate union, even as you offer what little comfort you have to give. You have only a single answer, an understanding of the most important revelation of all: this is how all should be – how it will always remain.


	27. Lahabrea: Fragments

Summary: _Now that they've become serious, the Warrior of Light decides to learn more about Lahabrea. 2.X._

Notes: Because the world needs more Lahabrea fluff; the WoL, and this story in general, is a tad bit more playful than normal.

 _ **Fragments**_

* * *

The first time you faced Lahabrea with neutrality in place of enmity revealed disconcerting similarities. Elidibus names Lahabrea a warrior - and rightly so; his focus is unwavering, demonstrating willingness to overcome all hurdles and fulfill his goals. Through combat or sweetened promises – often the very same oaths you make, whispers of safety and stability – he moves synchronously as if opposite you on a two-faced coin.

He is not unique - there are many on Hydaelyn like him - you once failed to convince yourself as the first cracks softened your heart.

The next revelations were far less unnerving: for one so prone to intense satisfaction at mortal folly, Lahabrea decidedly lacks humor, especially when he is its target. Without familiarity, the effects of your tease were imperceptible, but you now know otherwise; his shoulders prickle, his jaw clenches ever so slightly, and he turns his attention away from any further discussion, seething almost juvenilely until apology is rendered.

You know little more of his true thoughts, besides the depths of pride and loyalty, how he fails to withhold annoyed rebuffs that reveal his worry, and his acceptance of your gentle touch over his forearms or back, not reciprocating, but not refusing – as much acknowledgement of your relationship as you will get from him.

Though shame limits his willingness to admit it, you are partners now; a foreign curiosity within your grasp, ignoring the potential to further explore Lahabrea is no different from putting Gil in the hand of a beggar and commanding he not spend it. "I'd like to learn you."

He deems reply unnecessary, yet his focus remains intensely on you, burning a hole through your soul, searching for obscured intentions. You cannot read him well enough to know his thoughts, but when Lahabrea finally crosses his arms over his chest, you know he acquiesces to your request.

"How old are you?" Lahabrea is no hopeless romantic; to open this book, you must first wear away its harsh edges.

"Old enough." His stare remains fixed, words flat and bored, but he is - most importantly – willing to humor you.

"Where do you enjoy spending your time?" You push lightly but assuredly; certainly, even Lahabrea must have a place he favors, be it for meditation, relaxation, or simple pleasures. Such locales often reveal idiosyncrasies.

"At His side." His evasion disappoints; a single harmless answer will suffice and the prideful man refuses even that.

"Do you favor any foods?"

"Salt." Is his dry response, your ears surely deceiving you; if his tone was not so blasé, you would be certain he teases you.

Boldness birthed from newfound confidence at the revelation of his amusement, you continue your questioning before you can second guess the foolishness of the endeavor.

"Is there anything you desire?" Before he gives the answer you know is on his lips, you continue. "Say nothing about the return of your God."

What can be seen of his face remains impassive at the bold query, but Lahabrea provides no immediate answer. No obvious signs of anger or resentment present themselves; his jaw remains loose, his shoulders slack - any changes are imperceptible, but even the blind and deaf would recognize the tension.

The foundation of your confidence already wavers, an ailment Lahabrea is wont to cause, and you divert the topic before Lahabrea's mood sours.

"Are you fond of your allies?"

"Mere conveniences." The answer is as flat as all the others, as if the awkward question was never asked.

"You're close to no one?"

"Only you." There is no regret in his revelation, the statement as informal and bland as all the others, yet your stomach reels in pit of erratic, exited warmth and terrifying, churning, all-consuming void.

You are the first break in his focus, even if you are fated to become a distraction that lasts but a miniscule fragment of his unnatural lifespan. Only after unprecedented humiliation does Lahabrea accept another into his life; be it out of frustrated desire to affirm his strength, a convoluted wish for devotion equal to his own - no matter the source and target - or perhaps even a desperate, failed bid for vengeance that catastrophically inverted upon itself, mutating the flames of rage to the heat of lust, there is more depth to his attachment than you initially believed.

Whether the revelation is intentional or not is irrelevant, further words are elusive and Lahabrea makes no attempt to elaborate or continue conversation. His nature is not one to express such affection and yet you still succumb to the temptation to twine your fingers between his, uncaring that he will not do the same.

Without warning, Lahabrea's controlled, precise dark aether absorbs your legs and arms, swallowing you like an unseen leviathan, drawing you into a teleportation that you do not recognize until it is too late to prevent. With no aetheryte you are at his mercy, but Lahabrea does not abuse your trust. He guides your reformation quickly and easily, revealing your destination to be a place you cannot possibly know.

There is nothing; from all directions, infinite blackness crushes you, while also liberating you from restriction, incomparable even to the sensation of resonating with Hydaelyn in the aetherial sea.

Silence somehow echoes; each of your breaths disrupts the plane, expanding like the waves of a droplet in a still sea. As your eyes further adjust, you see them - shards, of all shades of blue and purple, pale to deep, clear to murky, line the darkness, like a broken mirror, fragments of a greater whole too broken to restore. Above and below, to all sides, somehow close enough to pulse with the faintest energies, yet far enough away that you could never touch any in a lifetime, as if you sit within the endless depths of the sea of stars itself.

You do not loose your grasp on his hand. Lahabrea offers no explanation for his actions, but for once it is unneeded; mystery he may remain, Lahabrea gifts the only answers you need - and they are beautiful.


	28. Lahabrea: Mutability

Summary: _The Warrior of Light loses a friendly bet, Lahabrea chooses a new type of pleasure as his reward. Explicit, plotless tentacle porn with Dom/Sub. FemWoL, pre-existing relationship. Timeline unspecified._

Notes: Before the kinkmeme removed everything Ascian, an Anon asked for Lahabrea summoning a tentacle monster to please himself and possibly someone else. So, Anon with fine taste, if you're reading, this is for you - even if it's definitely not what you had in mind.

As you can see in the summary, this is Dom/Sub tentacle porn, with everything it entails. The WoL does go willingly into sex with Lahabrea and there is no third party "monster," but if you're not comfortable with the subject matter, you probably shouldn't read this.

 ** _Mutability_**

* * *

You should have known better.

The wistful conclusion lodges itself firmly at the forefront of your mind as Lahabrea lifts his finger from your dry lips, radiating a satisfaction so intense that if he was a normal man you are certain he would be humming the merry tune of a well-sated minstrel on a bustling holiday street.

 _Anything_ the victor desires, was his proposal - a temptation too enticing to forgo. There are a great many gifts Lahabrea offers and you accepted with barely a second thought, during a convenient lapse of memory that should have cautioned you that Lahabrea's ruthlessness ascertains that he obtains precisely what he seeks, even during the least offensive of competitions.

You need not tell yourself it was a foolish decision; Lahabrea's pride refuses to allow him to be bested again, his arrogance supported by millennia of experience that turns his ambitions into reality.

Civilizations fall to mistakes such as yours.

"What are you planning?" You finally speak as the tips of his fingers move down to caress the bare flesh of your throat, the cool tease of dark claws spreading prickles over your exposed flesh, words breathy.

A rumbling chuckle is his only response, subdued, dark, and chilling to your core, promising more than words ever can.

Lahabrea bleeds, aether surrounding false flesh like a heavy fog, until his appearance distorts and melts away like a dawn mist, the remnants of his chuckle still echoing through your veins. As if making some primal, feral claim, Lahabrea coats your skin, bathing you in the formless shadow that is his essence, somehow darker and thicker than the blackness that permeates the plain room he has chosen for your experimental endeavor.

His touch is intimately, frustratingly familiar, tingling and electric, drawing invisible digits over every part of your body simultaneously, your heart beating quickly at the thorough way he spoils you. Slow, lazy, predictable, he tastes your entire body, as if his existence's purpose is to please – as if your entire form exists to satisfy him. Lahabrea's caress feels little different from the massage of his strong hands, sending sensual, painful shivers from the tips of your fingers down to the ends of your toes, leaving you breathless and unsatisfied, begging for depths that he refuses to provide.

This surely cannot be all he plans, the tiny, rational voice back of your mind warns, but it is the faintest whisper amongst the beginnings of a storm. The tenseness of danger only makes your heart beat faster in anticipation of Lahabrea's favored methods for extending the burning torture of denied pleasure.

Your worries prove to be justified; Lahabrea manipulates his form, congregating into countless thin tendrils, like a river branching off into streams that flow all over your body. Constricting and grasping, his aether hardens into a sticky sap that draws you along with it before solidifying into _something._ Large, thick, heavy and smooth, Lahabrea's new weight limits your movement more than any binds, encircling your arms, legs and waist. He is tight against your thighs, like stockings one size too small, and even more commanding of your wrists, pulling your arms above your head, held together and aloft by the invisible force of a rope-like tendril that does not budge, no matter how you squirm against it.

The darkness obscures the form Lahabrea chooses to take, but with the way the tips of the aether-formed tendrils roam your flesh, playing at the sensitive region below your navel, it is easy enough to guess.

With dexterity no Spoken's limb is capable of, each tentacle roams independently, savoring your body with just the tips; teasing and flicking, there seems to be no pattern to his touch - over your neck and across your back, down your thighs and calves, before finally taking hold your ankles like a resilient vine, leaving a thin trail of tingling, viscous, aether behind that soon slicks your entire body.

Binding you fully in the air with directed intention, the mutated Lahabrea supports your weight through unnatural strength, limiting your motion so that he can satisfy the most carnal of his cravings. Thick, powerful tentacles embrace your thighs, commanding your legs to spread for him, allowing Lahabrea access to your most sensitive locales – but only after he deems it appropriate, leaving your wet vagina aching and crying out for his touch.

He knows you as well as you know yourself, knows the regions over your thighs, belly, hips and neck that appeal to you most, doing little more than teasing at thin skin all the while denying you what you wish most.

With surprising patience, Lahabrea instead toys at your nipples, manipulating hard nubs with a thick tendril just as easily as he could his thumb, flicking, encircling, tracing around your areolas until you breasts ache and the barest touches do nothing to sate you. You almost demand he press harder, hesitating only because it is exactly what he wishes for you to do.

Lahabrea keeps you at his mercy; eliciting rare moans but giving little else, his sole purpose to make you beg for him.

You've neither the desire nor the ability to resist him. Gasping as you clench your fists above your head, the spreading tingling warmth causes your abdomen to repeatedly constrict, pulsing and wordlessly pleading for everything Lahabrea denies you, succumbing easily to his whims.

Reveling in his victory, Lahabrea probes, shallowly at first, with just the tendril's end, tracing shapes over the slick folds of your clit, refusing to penetrate, instead exploring and tasting you in a way he refuses to do in his Hyur-like form, letting your flavor envelop him completely. Your wetness betrays you, aiding the tip of the large tentacle in its repeating playful teases, the hard tip barely entering you before flickering in exit.

Lahabrea's coils grasp your nipples tighter, until you can no longer silence your moans. Another tremor of dizzying heat wracks your body, your breaths heavy and pleasant enough to temporarily distract the wandering tendrils from their tease.

Without warning, the large tentacle holding your neck sneaks up, darting between full, half-open lips; coated in aether and saliva, its tip plays at the roof of your mouth in a tickling light pressure before twisting its way to the back of your hot throat, as deeply as Lahabrea dares go. You swallow instinctively, the pressure only makes you suck the all-encompassing mass of flesh harder. Your moans are stifled, but your lips still purse over the end of the tentacle as he thrusts in and out, running it over your tongue teasing at you with its tip repeatedly until again penetrating your throat.

"Submit." You do not even notice the presence of his Hyur-form until he compels you with his low, husky growl. Lahabrea's broad chest presses against your back, his deep, heavy pants warming your cheek as he explores with his hands as supplement to his tentacles. His claws roam down to press at your sore, pounding clit as he grinds your bottom with his hips, deriving as much pleasure from you as you do him.

He murmurs something unintelligible to you in the Ascian tongue, deep, slow, guttural, like the beast form he emulates, commanding you with every inch of his chosen bodies, each word electric over and within your flesh. The grunts are little more than babble to your ears, his very presence blinding your Echo, overloading your already ecstasy-dazed senses.

Full – too full – thick and large, the tentacle that has been the source of your agony finally worms between your slick, hot thighs. Lahabrea's tendril impales you more deeply than any mortal man can, pulsing, filling you with raw, burning aether that amplifies your already-raging lust. Writhing within your body, the tentacle strokes the sensitive region on your front wall and your hips contract instinctively; you futilely try to press your thighs together, but he's too thick, too strong. Your pleasure remains at Lahabrea's whim.

You pant heavily, the foreign aether within you barely registering as Lahabrea at all, even as he stands closely enough to intimately feel every toned muscle under his robes.

In and out, the large tentacles repeatedly pierce you. Lahabrea's fingers rub fiercely at your clit, until you know nothing but him, his essence penetrating your entire body until he gasps in pleasure, unable to hold back any longer. At his release, the world burns around you, so full of Lahabrea that you feel as if your abdomen and stomach swell. The last of your rationality dissipates as Lahabrea grunts harshly against you, his weight falling onto your back and your mind fades into heightened euphoria.

With delicacy he demonstrates only when satisfied, Lahabrea slides his tentacles from your mouth and vagina, momentarily freeing you from his dominating presence. Even sated, Lahabrea's aether remains within and around, binding your body to his will, holding you aloft. His fingers lazily roam the path previously trodden by the solidified tendrils of aether, reveling in your rare, exposed vulnerability and the temporary submission brought on by your afterglow.

"Crystal Bearer." With Lahabrea so close, his overbearing presence absorbs your full attention. He meets your eyes, a confident smile playing at his lips. "I've a proposal."

The new arrangement is as tempting as the last. Denial never crosses your mind with the way his chest heaves against yours with each inhale or how his breaths blow loose strands of hair from your face with each exhale, the taste of his aether still fresh on your tongue. You simply nod, easily accepting the terms of the new bet, the promise of complete victory over him unbearably enticing.

This time you won't lose.


	29. Nabriales: Trial

Summary: _Under normal circumstances, a Spoken's actions during moments of intimacy are as irrelevant as a gnat under his wing, however Midgardsormr is bound to pass judgement on this particular mortal - and the Father of Dragons is quite certain that claws are not intended to be used in that way. Voyeurism, very slight AU immediately post-KotL; pre-existing relationship._

Notes: For ffxiv_kink_meme prompt: _Distracting minion voyeurism._

Just a short, light-hearted fill for a cute prompt.

 _ **Trial**_

* * *

Midgardsormr knows Her ephemeral children - their curiosities and lusts, their potential for both apathy and kindness, their desire to conquer and their hope for love, fickle emotions as conflicting as the Gods themselves. It is unsurprising that the Gifted One shares such idiocrasies – those Chosen are intended to be paragons of Her children. Without flaws, Warriors cannot represent their people in the eyes of the Goddess.

Curious anxiety expresses itself in the Gifted's demeanor; alone in the security of their nest, there is no need for vigilance, yet the peculiar tension only deepens with the passage of time.

Midgardsormr watches and waits, impassively perching on a dusty shelf, knowing all will be revealed when it must.

The unprecedented source of unease reveals itself sooner than he expects in the form of one of Zodiark's servants; alarmingly, the Gifted anticipates the strange intruder's arrival, and relief replaces trepidation.

The confident Shadowless immediately recognizes the Chosen's newfound vulnerability, Her Blessing no longer present to hinder His ilk. Midgardsormr removes the intruder from their shared soulspace as soon as he begins his invasive probing, denying the servant of Darkness the revelations he clearly seeks.

Rather than acknowledge Midgardsormr, the man's lips turn up in a smile, murmuring quietly as he corrals Her Chosen to a large desk, lifting their rump onto it.

"We'll be seen." The Chosen worriedly glances over to him, finally heeding his presence.

Following the Chosen's gaze, the Shadowless meets Midgardsormr's eyes briefly before returning his focus to the Gifted One; the smile playing at his lips deepens as he leans down, face far closer than is appropriate, twitching like a hatchling anticipating a long-awaited meal.

"Indeed. Let Silvertear's Guardian witness the truth - " The servant of Darkness's voice drips of condescension he is unworthy of displaying. While his arrogance is amusingly trite, Midgardsormr's musings still instantly at the thorough way the stranger devours the Gifted One. "– how you plead for me - "

The clatter of stray crockery and parchment-filled portfolios spilling onto the floor are the only sounds Midgardsormr hears, unable to turn from the sight.

Hands roam under loose clothing, tugging them off between harsh breaths and tossing them to the floor thoughtlessly. "- how deeply the Chosen of Light is tainted -" Weight held by the desk, the servant of Darkness uses ornamental claws to stroke the sensitive flesh between the Chosen's legs, teasingly refusing to remove their undergarments as they squirm under his devoted ministrations.

"- and how truly beyond saving you are." The Gifted's legs spread, wordlessly begging for the Shadowless; heavy pants fill the room as the man's fingers finally play at raw, sensitive genitals, his victory small but assured.

Midgardsormr cannot turn from horror before him; claws used in such a way would tear a dragon apart.

Futilely attempting to subdue lust-addled moans, Her Chosen again glances over to Midgardsormr, cheeks pink, lips swollen and slicked with saliva, eyes glossed; the Gifted misses a breath at the realization that he continues his silent observation.

The Shadowless expresses annoyance at the brief distraction through a harsh, nasal sound, tilting his partner's face back to him, murmuring something that immediately commands the Chosen's full attention; Midgardsormr does not need knowledge of the ancient tongue to understand the suggestion in his words.

Kneeling before his lover, it is not until Midgardsormr sees the way his tongue flicks out in a tease of his partner's arousal that he understands exactly what the man intends.

Fangs do not belong anywhere near _there_ \- and yet still Midgardsormr watches as the Darkness consumes the Light, the Gifted's legs curling around the Shadowless's shoulders, back arching, hands clutching at the desk until knuckles turn white, and pleading moans crying out the name of their lover fill the room until they finally cease under the bliss of release.

Midgardsormr forces himself to release his harsh grip on the shelf before he splinters the wood; yes, Midgardsormr knows Her children, but he doubts he will ever understand them.


	30. Igeyorhm: Satisfaction

Summary: _Plainly, you desire a foe to despise._

 ** _Satisfaction_**

* * *

"Eager. Vibrant."

"What?" Ysayle is as surprised as you are at the servant of Darkness's presence in the Hive's depths and steals the very words from your tongue.

The unfamiliar Ascian – a woman, by her voice - keeps her distance, but with the intensity in her focus on you, Ysayle might well be a roach. "Yet only when drenched in the essence of downed Gods do you so shine."

Your weapon at ready, the woman continues her silent observation, the most delicate of smiles the only evidence of her thoughts. "You speak in riddles."

Ever fond of their one-sided conversations, this Ascian neglects even an introduction.

"Continue struggling, Bringer of Light; the longer the swell is dammed the stronger it becomes."

###

"Honesty." Overlooking the empty city, she breaks snow-muffled silence. "That is what they lack -" She is but a pace from you, presence chiller than any blizzard. "- What all mortals lack."

You like to believe you're honest with yourself.

"Are you satisfied, Bringer of Light?"

Were you unfamiliar with the strange woman's frequent appearances and inane questions, you'd question her purpose – but you know better: an answer for an answer. All trades have cost and her price is fair, for an Ascian.

You are safe and you are warm, even when the war-torn Ishgard falls around you; there is only one reponse. "Yes."

She closes the final distance and rests a hand on your face.

Your heart pounds furiously at the thrill of the unknown. The sensation of being very much _alive,_ absent only a moment before, fills you as you revel in the risk of allowing one so powerful so near; rapid breaths course adrenaline through your veins and your muscles tense, as if the very act of being touched by an Ascian is forbidden.

Yet hers is a normal hand, the leather of dark gloves warm, decorative metal frost-chilled, indistinguishable from any other Hyur.

She whispers her reward at the answer you did not intend to give, as if sharing an intimate secret. "I am Igeyorhm."

###

The aged wood of the manor's table refuses to rend under your hands, no matter how deeply you wish to feel it bend and splinter.

"Do you despise your responsibilities?" Incapable and disinterested in humoring Igeyorhm, you remain silent. "Do you loathe the frail individuals you serve – or even those that necessitate your existence through their continued cries for divine succor?"

"Or perhaps is it the master commanding it all, denying you prolonged happiness, that you despise most."

It is not a question.

 _No_ – you wish to serve, to save others, to protect Hydaelyn and Her inhabitants –

Your fingers will break if your grasp on the side of the table tightens further.

 _Honesty._

Favored by the Goddess, your life above all others, you will never stop the sacrifices; so long as you are their Warrior of Light, you are death as much as you are life – as much chaos as placidity.

You do not gift her with the answer she seeks, lest the predator learn how deeply her words pierce the heart of her prey.

Igeyorhm places her warm hand over yours on the table, loosing your grip.

She knows.

###

Stray strands of hair as blue as the limitless sky blow in the wind from under her cowl.

"I am dissatisfied, Slayer of Gods." Igeyorhm stands closer than she ever has, her hand held to your chest. "This game – this distasteful duty – were it within my power, I would end it all now."

As would you – though perhaps not for the same reasons.

The pressure is too heavy, it takes all of your effort to breathe – and it's not only her dark magicks that bind you.

"Yet I cannot, for I am but a servant and even the endless strive for that which is impossible to grasp."

She toys not with you, her duty swiftly completed; no matter the burning shame of failure, you are thankful for her haste, lest Igeyorhm's disconcerting admission continue its corrosion.

###

"You stand before me at the head of a trail of corpses, on a path smeared with blood." The facility's artificial light is absorbed by swirling robes. "And you are satisfied."

The Ascians seek Calamity and Igeyorhm berates you for the blood you must shed – nonsensical.

"You're wrong." An instinctual rejection, though you're unsure why; there is nothing to deny.

"I'm not." Igeyorhm speaks not in condemnation, but regret. "But you are yet mortal and mortals know little of honesty."

She forfeits your title, speaking your name in its place; you are surprised she even knows it.

"If you heed no more of my words, know this: a tool is blameless."

You know where the fault lies – she has made certain of that.

The shadows embrace her; Igeyorhm disappears from your side for what must be the final time, but her words remain, filling the small cracks in your heart with traitorous doubt.

###

The fragmented echoes of her voice never wash away ". . .For who else can empathize, save those equally bound to their God?"

The auracite shatters, leaving you without the only individual who understood– the one you will never know – and without the satisfaction of answers.

* * *

An Anon on Antithesis once mentioned that my themes can be a bit difficult to grasp if you're a non-native English speaker, have a quick rundown of what's going on here: In short, this is a story of how mutually self-destructive a relationship between enemies can be.

1\. Igeyorhm makes the same observations she does in the Hive about the Warrior's power, except she confronts the Warrior. Also added in some of her ARF.  
2\. The WoL has entered into an unspoken agreement with Igeyorhm, some give and take. She learns more about the WoL's personality by doing such, weaknesses and strengths, vulnerabilities to exploit. However, she has interest in the WoL in general. The last bit references the summary line - the WoL is looking for conflict with the Primals by the time Heavensward comes around and they need a consistent enemy to be satisfied. Hence - _alive_.  
3\. Post-Vault. Igeyorhm puts her knowledge of WoL's mental state to good use, planting seeds of doubt.  
4\. Post-Bismarck. However, by spending so much time learning her enemy, she has gained some empathy and affection for them.  
5\. Putting everything together, the Warrior knows the battle is almost over, they are going to succeed. Yet still Igeyorhm knows she, too, has succeeded, because hers is the longer game. And no matter her thoughts on the matter, she has her duty as well.  
6\. And now the WoL has won - but also lost because, in truth, Igeyorhm and WoL did have a close, twisted sort of relationship. The WoL is truly alone now because, despite having friends and companions, they are simply not the same. The Warrior's struggles are at a higher/meta level.


	31. Nabriales: The Cost of Disregard

Summary: _FemWoL. After a last minute emergency, the Warrior of Light fills in for Minfilia at a political event, taking the Scions along with her. Unfortunately, the party demands the Warrior of Light delay a long-anticipated evening with her lover, a rejection Nabriales does not take well to._

 _Features Moenbryda, Yda, sex toys, PDAs, shame/humiliation, orgasm denial, and Nabriales being the wonderful asshole he is. 2.4._

For prompt: _FemWoL. Someone finds a strange device on the ground at a grand gathering, and decides to play around with it. Despite all the tweaking and toying with the settings, nothing seems to be happening._

 _At least, not to the naked eye. However, a certain Warrior of Light didn't realize the controller of her toys had been misplaced until all of her fun little gadgets began to go off within her._

 **The Cost of Disregard**

* * *

Though often apathetic to mortal plight, this night the Gods are merciful – the crystal doesn't react until the dignitaries disperse, formalities completed, leaving you to your business.

"Moen, come look!" Yda's call sounds through the room as shockingly persistent, tantalizingly familiar, and entirely unwelcome warmth spreads through your abdomen from gentle vibration.

Your stomach flutters strongly enough that the pressure from your heart's excited beats cannot push it down; now is most certainly not the time for _this._

"Let me see that." Not even Moenbryda's endearing, passionate curiosity blinds you to the direness of situation.

"Hey!" Yda's dejection mimics yours. As if time slows, Moenbryda lifts the dark, glowing crystal, its aether reacting with the identical one inside you, sending pangs of heat coursing through your abdomen and making you tremble in weakness.

 _Impossible_ ; you're certain you left it in your chambers.

"Incredible; 'tis a crystal, yet the readings are unlike anything I've seen." It's undeniable; they've the other crystal.

Moenbryda curiously plays with the strange crystal – rightfully interested in the unique object; there is none other like it on Hydaelyn. "Aye, it seems to be reacting. . ."

"Let me see - wow!"

You know what the artefact does even without seeing the source of Yda's surprise; Nabriales created the toy from concentrated aether, so that your pleasure could be shared. 'Tis the first time the crystal's unique, vivid glow and subtle hum of power, mutable through simple touches and amplified over the equivalent flesh, send as much dread as excitement through you.

Yda must have taken it from Moenbryda; at each of her greedy, curious grasps you feel hands rapidly travel over your body; at the top of the crystal, an alluring massage over your shoulders and breasts, invisible hands cupping and toying at your nipples before her fingers move down the crystal, the sensation spreading in sensitive trails like teasing, delicate fingers, over your hips and waist, before groping your bottom. Instinctively you lean your head back as the tingles shudder through your abdomen, moistening your undergarments –

Your brief moment of indulgence ends as soon as it begins as your lidded gaze catches a guest staring. Theirs is not a face you recognize, but his presence is enough and your arousal immediately and temporarily dims in shock, heart pounding furiously in your ears, your face burning and jaw clenching in shame.

If Moenbryda and Yda have the crystal the situation will worsen before it improves – they mustn't learn the toy is yours, let alone what it does or how you came to possess it. Unable to even muster a smile as you gently push your way through the civilians, you desperately attempt to remain inconspicuous as you put distance between yourself and the two Scions. Each step is uncomfortable and awkward from the crystal's vibration within, thighs grinding against each other tightening the muscles in your abdomen.

You get no farther than a thick pillar before he finds you, sweat slicking your form head to toe from embarrassment and desire both. Nabriales pushes you with practiced ease against the large structure, the reality of what the Ascian has done becoming clear.

 _He is the only one who knows._

Already-sensitive flesh cries out as you're pulled into his robes – soft and silken, just the feeling your body has been longing for – his very existence making you shiver repeatedly as large hands greedily roam your flesh, reacquainting themselves with what they already know intimately.

"What've you done?" Your attempt at condemnation falls flat, hiss shaky and breathless, muffled by proximity.

A deep laugh you can feel every rumble of courses through Nabriales as he points a single finger towards the pair of Scions you fled from mere moments before. The duo continue their argument a few steps away on the other side of the pillar, fiercely curious about their new treasure, blind to the stares around them.

"Be cautious, we know naught of its potential." Despite Moenbryda's collected declaration, she strokes your crystal as fervently as Yda, the natural aether of her body in tune with the artefact.

 _Oh, Twelve._

You must needs retrieve it, already Nabriales' presence enhances -

Unable to hold back the shudder from the toy's vibrations, Nabriales' quiet, mocking laughter blocks out all other sound.

With all the arrogance of an Emperor, his smirk blinds your vision as he pushes your back against the pillar, his body pressing into yours with unspoken promises, his knee between your thighs, allowing him easy access to the pulsing crystal deep within you . "You won't get away from me this time."

"Not here." _You'll be seen_ – you almost say, but all words die on your tongue – the partygoers might see _you_ , but Nabriales, hostless as he is, remains invisible to those without the Echo.

His broad chest and cowl block your sight, making it impossible to know who sees you and who does not; the entire room could well be witnessing your begging and harsh pants, legs spread around empty air, and you'd know no better.

You curse the Ascian and his rational irrationality; Nabriales' desire to be with you might be endearing were he not intent on sabotaging your evening for denying him attention.

"It's definitely reacting when we interact with it." Moenbryda forces you back to harsh reality as she continues examining the crystal from her place on the other side of the pillar, voice betraying stubborn determination.

"You want to be seen." Nabriales accuses, his lips against yours, refusing any more than a wispy tease; Moenbryda channels her aether through the artefact – through Nabriales and you – the aether spreading out from your vagina, its warm tendrils teasing like fingers, between your thighs, over your clit – Nabriales knows it as well as you, his fingers following the path – up your abdomen and stomach, again playing at your nipples, just enough of a tease to make your muscles clench repeatedly, fingers grasping hard at Nabriales' wrists. "Why else would you wear our toys in public?"

"'Twas your idea!" You pant against his lips, not truly heeding him, logic secondary to well-honed instincts – instincts that are telling every fiber of your flesh to rub your finger over your clit and finish yourself now, witnesses be sent to the Lord of the Inferno.

"That it was." He is gratingly overconfident, even as he relents; as if rewarding you, his hands grope at the garments covering your breasts. Even if your audience cannot see Nabriales, they can certainly see everything he does to your body, the way you squirm under his every ministration, crushed between his weight and the pillar. Holding Nabriales' attentions so thoroughly, even the horrifying thought of capture isn't enough to dull the passion your arousal – nay, your heart beats faster, slave to your lover's whim. "I needn't even act and still I'm gifted with your flesh."

The irritating Ascian is right – you melt under Nabriales as surely as Saint Shiva under Southern Thanalan's sun, the final green laming the chocobo. You cannot but give in, not even your utmost control staving off harsh breaths; your pants are muffled as best you can, but the strangled sound clearly betrays them for any near to hear.

"Pleading for me when we're separated but a sun - you're fortunate for my devotion; others would not so thoroughly bow to your whims." His hands roam down from your breasts to your hips, resting on your undergarments, lips frowning in disapproval as he looks at them, unable to pull them down without removing the outer layer of your clothing; not even Nabriales is foolish enough to lift your raiment before of the world. "Next time I must needs do away with these. They're naught but a nuisance."

"You wouldn't." He _would;_ Nabriales makes no casual threats _–_ and that's what excites you most.

Never mind that he promises a next time.

Gritting your teeth to stop your moans, you are unable to stop squirming as his fingers play at your clit, grinding forward into his hips. He's not going to stop, the Scions are not going to stop, you can only give in; Nabriales has won your complete attention.

"The aether flows to somewhere nearby; 'tis faint, but just strong enough that I can determine its path." Moenbryda's voice pierces you, the manipulation in the flow of your toy's aether disruptive and shocking, as if dousing a campfire with ice water.

"Hydaelyn help me." You plead and curse – Nabriales foremost, but also Yda and Moenbyda for their persistent curiosity and desire to decipher that which should remain unknown.

"She abandons Her sinful child this night. 'Tis just as well; She has no place between us."

Nabriales talks too much; you'd sooner his overly active mouth be doing other things – you fiercely push the stray, unwanted thought down, the last vestiges of lust continuing to shroud logic.

"Ah, we're close!" No, no, _no_ – you can hear Yda's scrambling footsteps, pulling Moenbryda along with her.

"I'll see you soon." He whispers in promise, darkness surrounding him before the Scions round the pillar. His weight no longer present to support you, you fall to the ground in a weakened, unsatisfied heap, longing for his touch even as the remnants of his aether still remains pulsing between your legs.

"Oh?" Moenbryda and Yda rush to your side, calling your name worriedly. Moenbryda pulls you from your slump, shouldering your weight as she looks over you quickly, immediately recognizing your condition. _"Oh."_

You thank Hydaelyn for Her small blessings; Yda hasn't noticed, her focus on your health rather than the affliction's cause, lest the entire hall know from her boisterous declarations.

Without another word, you snatch the object from Moenbryda, manipulating its aether in the way only you and Nabriales know, so that the tingling vibrations over your flesh finally fade.

"Not a word." Burning and denied, breathless from heavy heartbeats, your tone falls somewhere between a groan and frustrated hiss.

The only words you'll be having this night are with Nabriales.


	32. Unukalhai: Defiance

Summary: Unukalhai fusses about the future while being bound to the past. Plotless, post 3.3, pre-3.4.

 ** _Defiance_**

* * *

You've many memories of the solar – in both Sands and Stones – and rumors speak of nostalgia that fuels frequent visits, of the stoic Warrior of Light's somber reminiscences inside.

They're not wrong – you are prone to such things – but your visits to the solar are neither for reminiscence nor somber tidings.

"Unukalhai?" Receiving no answer, you hesitantly push the door to the silent room open. He must be there, if nothing else about Unukalhai is predictable, his constant presence at the desk remains welcoming - as are his warm greetings; that Unukalhai remains silent forebodes only ill.

Seemingly enthralled by the pile of parchment on the desk, Unukalhai writes with fervor. He claims to record your deeds against the Triad, but with the intensity of his focus and no member of the remaining Triad yet stirring, you cannot but ponder his true purpose.

Shrouded even in his transparency - 'twould not be Unukalhai otherwise.

The sound of the door closing finally rouses him; Unukalhai belatedly lifts his head, greeting you with the same serenity he always bears. You curse his mask for the protection it affords him, hiding the truth of his distractions and endeavors. Knowing well enough the challenge of burying emotions in the midst of responsibility, you will have none of his feigned bravado. "What troubles you?"

"I am not unwell." Is his immediate and smooth response. 'Tis not a lie, exactly, but small half-truths are Unukalhai's evasions, his avoidance eased by offering only morsels of his knowledge – just enough to sate your curiosity, but little more than tease at the insight his enigmatic and versed master imparts unto him.

You know him well enough now – and he you - that you will not be so easy distracted by his games. You instead say nothing, offering only a firmly disapproving frown.

The result is satisfactory; Unukalhai sighs and relents, recognizing your determination and knowing to pick his battles.

"I lament our parting." His unexpected declaration contains well-hidden emotion; the mutually unexpected feelings of longing and comfort, seeking the sense of ease after a trying battle, of a warm hearth in the storming Coerthas, are within him as much as they are you. Unukalhai holds his conflicts close to heart; he never expected to share his secrets and you never expected the intensity of your desire to soothe.

"You're one of us now." They words have none of their intended effect and his shoulders tense with practiced subtlety, flinching away from you as if burned. He may trust and care for you, but he fears believing in you – a justified fear. "I won't let it happen again." You lost your companions and friends at Ul'Dah – he lost his land, everything dear to him, and almost his life. "I'll protect you." - and Hydaelyn both, so that Unukalhai need not suffer again, so that all will be saved.

"Would that – " He falls senselessly silent. Refusing to put words to his dilemma, Unukalhai's fragility reveals itself, breaking his unnatural calmness.

"You'll always be with me –" You interrupt, refusing to succumb to pessimism; if he will not trust in himself, he must believe in you. You must remain steady for his sake; you will not permit his delicate heart to break again. "- my star." He dares not disagree, not when you so earnestly plead with the murmur of his pet name.

Unukalhai always has the right words, smooth gentle whispers weaving fanciful tales you might not believe otherwise; your skills are elsewhere. As Her chosen, your Light offers strength and shielding security; you will gift him everything within your power, as you know he would for you, no matter his claims otherwise.

Unukalhai's hands fall onto his lap, head lowered in thought - more vulnerable than moments before, but also more malleable. Your words pierce age-worn armor, devotion undeniable.

It takes him uncommonly long to regain his composure, but when he does, his voice is just as soft and pleasant as always, his shields restored. "I cannot always be at your side." His tone is firm, lacking all earlier regret, having seemingly made a decision. "For the times I am unable, I still wish to aid you - "

Before you can interrupt with another scolding, Unukalhai leans down, fiddling with the floor under the desk like a bored child attending an undesirable lecture. What he brings forth from its hiding spot is even more surprising, revealing further unexplored depths.

Unukalhai is small, but the object he holds is far tinier; he lifts it across the table in both hands, motioning for you to take it.

'Tis a tiny mammet, lacking adornment and garbed in plan white, easily recognizable for the one it is intended to emulate. Unukalhai offers you a nod, doubtless smiling shyly behind the mask he continues to don. Its tiny head tilts as it examines you, imprinting your visage onto its mammet heart as much as Unukalhai has imprinted onto yours.

It quickly satisfies itself and grasps at your arm in gentle embrace, holding tightly, refusing to be parted from its new master, expressing with its artificial body all of the emotions that Unukalhai desperately wishes to hide.

He must have made the soft thing himself; wise beyond his apparent years, Unukalhai writes, is skilled in the magicks, knows more of history than anyone you know – including the Scions – is Gifted, and now he reveals himself to be a skilled craftsman as well.

The little creature pulses with energy – not the faint aetheric aura from a normal mammet or its heart, but that of a powerful crystal, much like Hydaelyn's crystals of Light, revealing the sense in his words. Too fragile to grant aid directly, the mammet can still regenerate your strength, Unukalhai aiding you even when you are apart.

For something so precious, it is a remarkably pragmatic gift.

Very much like Unukalhai himself.

You clutch the treasure to your chest softly, not caring to hide the smile that tugs at your lips; you will keep your word – Unukalhai will always remain by your side, both partner and mammet companion.

"- So that fate can be defied." Unukalhai finally finishes his declaration when he sees your comforting smile.

"Fate _will_ be defied." You correct under your breath as your finger the precious gift's plain, yet exquisitely modeled mask.

You will protect this – protect _him_.

You must.


	33. Igeyorhm: Simulacrum

Summary: Explicit Femslash, a tad bit of tribbing, mutual masturbation. The Warrior of Light greets the morning with a special gift from Igeyorhm.

 _Knowledge dictates expectation, and expectation colors perception. Thus did she perceive naught._

Notes: This is a result of writer's block, increasing self-indulgence, the revelation that Igeyorhm in Heavensward wears pale pink lipstick (most easily seen in the Sea of Clouds, but go check it out and compare her to Lahabrea in ARF!), as well as the desire to give Igeyorhm a happy fic. I'm filling my own prompt ( _Lipstick kisses_ ) here.

Also based on that Lahabrea sees Igeyorhm as a female Midlander during the scene from his PoV at the end of 2.0.

As a final note, while I usually avoid the topic of Ascian Hyur-form (eg, the aether construct that you see Nabriales form in the CS after the Chrysalis in 2.5) genitalia, I've opted to include it here, just for the sake of porn.

 _ **Simulacrum**_

* * *

"The dawn rises in your stead, Bringer of Light." A harsh, unexpected voice shatters the serene placidity of sleep, interrupting rare moments of self-indulgence in the warm confines of your chambers, sheltered from the night's wailing blizzard.

Alert from the disruption, your heart races, body instinctively tense in preparation for a desperate struggle – but slows equally quickly as rationality subdues irrational instincts.

She sits at your side in the dark room; the only hint of dawn peeking in from under the curtain does nothing to reveal the stranger's features, yet 'tis Igeyorhm with certainty. The caress of her hand over your scalp, tangling through your hair – a normal, if possessive, gesture of calming affection - slows your breaths and confirms your suspicions.

"How long have you been watching me?" You force yourself into wakefulness, the pounding in your head refusing to recede until you lay back down at her side, giving into her gentle ministrations, allowing distraction by the pleasant shivers that course your flesh. Hers is not an unwelcome presence, but she rarely intrudes upon your private quarters without invitation, let alone so early in the day – if her kind even are even bound to the concepts of _early_ and _late_ , the Aetherial Rift and Void seemingly timeless.

Not unexpectedly, she avoids answering; Ascians are nothing if not predictable, in their own way, ambiguity and evasion habitually dictating their behavior, even whilst demonstrating intimate familiarity.

Igeyorhm has no intention of allowing your return to sleep, her hands drifting to your shoulders, preventing you from rising or turning away.

"Good morrow." Breathy and flirty, her lips upturn, visible behind her mask's tip even when illuminated by only a sliver of the palest dawn light.

Instinctively tense at Igeyorhm's worrisome smirk, your fears prove well founded when she leans over you, further reveling in her success: your complete attention and focus on her whims. 'Tis clear Igeyorhm enjoys the power she wields; she removes her mask with deliberate nonchalance, placing it on the bed beside you and making certain you know of its presence, as if claiming the chamber for herself.

Her intent is as obscured as her features in the early morning's blackness, even as she lowers her face to yours. Igeyorhm's tongue flicks over your lips before meeting them, teasing the roof of your mouth with a feathery tickle until her kisses turn into slow sucks that make their way lazily down your neck, tiny shivery bumps forming over bare flesh in their wake. She tastes of Galago mint, the smell overpowering as thick oil covers your lips in numbing chill, scent residual on your flesh, remnants of Igeyorhm as much as the thin coat of saliva from her tongue's trail.

"Lipstick?" Distracted by soft lips, you question the revelation with a confused murmur.

For a brief moment, Igeyorhm hesitates, her mouth lingering over your collarbone before lifting her head to meet your gaze. "Is that so unexpected?"

 _Yes_ – you wisely hold your peace. She's Ascian; such a menial behavior seems below the undying ones. They are so foreign, bearing identical raiments with equally identical forms – even their servants wear the patterns of their master – 'tis surreal that Igeyorhm pays heed to something so mundane as beauty. The rationale is impossible to put to words; she has never seemed to care how she appeared to you.

"I see." Igeyorhm seems surprised at your impression of her, lips pursing. At her hesitation, you push yourself up, sitting beside her; Igeyorhm's arms encircle your back, playing softly at its lower crook with her fingertips as she holds you close, face so near yours that the mint of her lipstick almost overwhelms. "Lahabrea commands your perception. I must needs free you from his influence."

Igeyorhm speaks cryptic nonsense, as Ascians are wont to do, but there is assuredness in her words, the absolute arrogance you've come to expect from her kind – she plans, constricting you ever deeper within her coils.

Briefly pausing to rest a hand on your cheek, she continues. "Learn all of me, with eyes unclouded."

Igeyorhm lowers your eyelids with delicate fingers before running the tips down your face and over your lips, stroking the nape of your neck and forearms until electric shivery tingles pool within, body already pleading for hastened touch. "Allow not the simulacrum to deceive; I am as woman as you."

She guides your hands over the curve of her thighs and hips, covered doubly in thin trousers and her robe, but still pronounced enough to recognize. Not so toned as an adventurer, Igeyorhm shows only agelessness, body supple and pleasant to the touch; your hands roam her stomach and up to unbound breasts – easily large enough to be seen under her robes, yet somehow remain hidden from sight – cupping them in massage, kneading and playing at her nipples until they harden under shared ministrations, gifting subdued, rapid breaths and a slight shiver as her hands clench yours, hips pressing into you.

Igeyorhm lowers your weight back to the bed, tugging off your nightclothes with ease, her mouth again finding your neck; what remains of the oil from her lipstick trails over your chest as she turns her attention to your nipples, soft, warm tongue rolling its tip around them as she sucks, her hand working the waistband of your undergarments. The morning-chilled metal of her gloves play at your abdomen and spreads warm pangs of yearning delight through you, wetness no longer constrained by disruptive clothing.

With closed lids, you know not where or how to start removing her layers of adornments, but when she releases you temporarily and a quiet shuffle sounds from above, you assume she removes them on her own.

The back of your mind briefly ponders on if Igeyorhm's robes are as much aether as she is, but the thought is quickly cast aside as one of her hands – the softness of flesh rather than the harsher material of her glove - returns to you and she slips a finger between your thighs into warm, slick folds, drawing slow, nonsensical patterns between them as it slides easily through you. The pulsing glow in your abdomen constricts your hips into her, clit's pound pleading for her to rub harder; she continues her light toying until your heart's beat is all that sounds in your ears and you're left breathless.

Unbidden, your eyes open to look to your partner – to be greeted only by darkness, be it the room's or the shade of Igeyorhm, or perhaps both.

"Succumb not to unruly haste." Her seemingly sourceless voice scolds, breathy and close to your lips, yet quiet enough that she might well whisper into your ear. The icy scent of smeared lipstick fills your nostrils, becoming synonymous with Igeyorhm.

Partly from curiosity and entirely out of desire for her to continue, you oblige Igeyorhm's whim, closing your eyes again and losing yourself in how invisible hands roam back up to your breasts, tracing your areolas one by one, rolling the tips of your nipples between her fingers until heat floods down your chest to your core at their bud.

Continuing exploration, her fingers roam over toned shoulders, fluttering against thin flesh of your inner arm and thighs, only increasing your heart's pound and amplifying the persistent warmth in your abdomen.

"Such power - " Igeyorhm reverts to her native language, making no effort to speak your Eorzean tongue, intent received more than the words themselves – intent that reveals how she revels in the control she possesses. Her breaths are heavy in lust-filled satisfaction and unrestrained hunger as she lowers the full of her weight to you; her hands lead yours down and down until you've access to her most sensitive regions, running digits over her clit through wet folds as she did yours, massaging its bud in a circular motion, fingers slicked from her juices. Small tremors wrack her form at your ministrations, pants becoming breathy moans as your rubbing becoming more fervent – a reaction so very _Spoken_ , despite Igeyorhm being so very alien, response as alluring as it is surprising "- blossoming independent its master. _My_ Bringer of Light."

Igeyorhm toys with your title, short and flirty words interrupted by harsh breaths and her tongue's flit at the roof of your mouth, somehow a mix between satisfied, possessive lust and disdain that she cannot claim the whole of you.

Her touch seeks all the more as Igeyorhm presses soft breasts against yours; her body rolls up and down like a wave, your pleasure with it, budding from your belly to the tips of your fingers and toes, peaking at the tips of your nipples and swelling through your breasts. The thin hairs on her mound meet yours, her slickness spreading as she rocks atop you, focusing on the shared heat of your clits, grinding into it with all her weight. Tingles deepen further towards your core as her hands massage both your breasts and hers simultaneously, hard buds meeting and working mutual pleasure as much as any fingers roaming an areola might, slickness turning to hot, pulsing wetness, your mouth opening in heavy panting at your heart's erratic beats.

Instinctively, aroused by Igeyorhm's satisfied moans, your eyes snap open, meeting deep blue, almost impossible to perceive in the barest morning light; exposed and vulnerable for the first time, as if she sheds her remaining armor alongside her robes, the individual, Igeyorhm, no longer Ascian, faces you. Dark, tussled and falls over you like a sheet, the remains of pink lipstick tinting kiss-swollen lips, and a pale blush of arousal the only mark on unblemished cheeks.

"You penetrate the veil with such ease." She murmurs more Ascian nonsense against your lips between kisses, not hesitating for a moment, her voice harsh but a pleasing and sensual purr in its praise. "I will be by your side as you grow all the more in your Gift."

She smiles – an anticipatory smirk, more truly – in elusive promise and with unexpected strength rolls you both to the side. Holding your hands in hers, Igeyorhm again leads you to her clit; soaking your middle finger as you push into it and through the folds, you massage the hot, swollen bud. She does the same to you, your slickness allowing ease of movement, burning, pounding at her touch, sharp pangs of pleasure sending electric waves of constriction through your form; legs coil, grinding against her fingers as she presses more fervently – and you against her, the swell of her clit under your ministrations gifting you pants that block out all other sound, until you both know nothing save the euphoria of pleasure. The world spins about as pulsing waves flood from your abdomen to every crevice of your body; arching your back with a final gasp, you collapse mindlessly on the bed as Igeyorhm finishes beside you, her breaths equally frantic before falling into subdued satisfaction.

"My Slayer of Gods - " She gasps lightly into your ear, but stops herself before she continues the husky, affectionate claim, choosing instead to pull you close.

Igeyorhm is bliss, the feel of the warmth of her body, soft breasts against yours, tangled hair intermingling, the scent of mint in your nostrils, offers serenity that even sleep cannot bring. As the morning light finally passes the horizon, illuminating your resting forms, it becomes clear that even the Shadowless are blessed by the beauty of the dawn.

* * *

I am a terrible author and very slow at updating the ffnet version of this story. You can find updates more frequently on AO3.


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